The King Is Dead
by Unknown-de-Mordor
Summary: Sherlock is up against Moriarty, but Sherlock is just a man. So in come another consulting detective unbeknown to Sherlock Holmes who prefers to play the game from the shadow. An attempt to bring 'Black Butler' into the 21st century. Written as OCs.
1. Chapter 1: After the Shock

**Author Note:** Oh, what have I just got myself into trying to write a Sherlock fan fiction and crossing it with Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji). I blame Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for giving me the idea of bringing Black Butler cast into the twenty-first century, more importantly into the Sherlock BBC-verse.

But I don't actually think of this as a crossover, since everything will happen in the Sherlock-verse and focus mainly on Sherlock cast**. **I'll be writing the Black Butler cast as OCs, so **you don't need to know anything about Black Butler to read this.** BUT the Black Butler merry crew still belongs to Yana Toboso. I own nothing of this little universe.

PS. Thanks **Eiko** for pointing out the grammar errors. I'm not a native speaker of English, so I know my grammar definitely sucks. I'll check and upload every chapter again. :) Hope I can keep you entertained.

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><p><em>"The hardest thing in chess is to win a won game." - Frank Marshall<em>

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><p><strong>Part 1: After the Shock<br>**

The pool was an utter mess when Lestrade arrived. The ambulance was already there. Firefighters were working to quench any fire left in and on the building. The roof was evidently in the verge of collapsing that they let no one, absolutely no one, inside the place.

It irritated Lestrade more than he would ever admit. The bomber had struck again, his fifth attack like Sherlock had said, but this time there was no warning, and he couldn't even contact Sherlock or John. At that moment he was trying to think what Sherlock would do, and what kind of evidence would he need from this place. For one thing, they had to confirm this was not a copycat. They needed samples of the bomb used here. He had to ask someone to find it for him. Someone.

His eyes involuntary fell on the rolling bed coming out of the complex heading for the ambulance. In a split of a second his heart, brain and legs raced toward the man evidently shocked and injured from the bomb. It was Sherlock, goddamnit, it was Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" he must have been screaming, but the sounds were deafening he couldn't even hear himself or Sally who was clearly trying to say something over the distance. He didn't care, not at that moment. He almost flung himself to the bed as they hurled Sherlock toward the white van.

Sherlock was barely conscious. His eyes were darting about as if observing everything but seeing nothing. The idiot met the criminal alone again, and he might have died because of it.

Then suddenly those blue orbs locked on him. His hand grabbed on the lapel of Lestrade's coat almost too tightly for a barely conscious man. Under the deafening noises he could hear words coming clearly from those broken lips. "Jim Moriarty. Barts. Molly."

That was all Sherlock was able to say before they pulled him into the ambulance and the door closed, locking Sherlock away. The detective was still reaching out for him but his strength was clearly failing. What struck Lestrade the most was the fact that he looked frantic unlike the calm calculating Sherlock. Something was very urgent, and he wanted Lestrade to help him.

_Jim Moriarty. Barts. Molly._

Sally reached him at last, telling him under her heavy breath that John Watson was sent to St. Barts moments ago. She mumbled the number of casualties before Lestrade cut her off. "Check St. Barts for Jim Moriarty and anyone by the name Molly. And be quick," he added. Sally seemed startled, but disappeared with his errand within minutes. She could sense the urgency of this from Lestrade as much as Lestrade could sense it from Sherlock. Sherlock had met the bomber, Moriarty. Something must be going on with Molly at St Barts.

But for now, he had to rely on the medics to care for John and Sherlock. He had to rely on Sally in understanding Sherlock's message. All he could do is what a detective must do: try to understand what had come to past.

The officers would not let him into the building for the reason he understood perfectly but left him frustrated nonetheless. He wanted to know what had gone on inside. But he was utterly out of place with the Bomb squad running around gathering anything they could about the explosive used. The medics were taking the injured and the dead away. Everyone was moving like a whirlwind around him as he stood there sometime asking, sometime thinking, but there was nothing he could do.

Then Sally ran to him with her cell phone in her hand. "They have a pathologist in St. Barts named Molly Hooper. We're trying to contact her. Nothing of Jim Moriarty there."

Quickly, Lestrade mind reeled. Jim Moriarty was the bomber, but what should he make of Molly Hooper. Was she one of Moriarty's people? She had to be connected in some way. Damn Sherlock for not being clear.

"Contact her once you know where she is. She is certainly a crucial link. Search for any record of Moriarty." Again he startled Sally. Poor Sally. Like him, she could sense the urgency, but she didn't understand. When she hesitated, he added, "Sherlock Holmes said so."

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><p>When Sherlock woke up, it was already day. The window at his bedside was beaten with drops and drops of rain. The pattern intrigued him for some time before he realized what he was staring at. His head was throbbing and his body ached. He started to feel the needle of the VI in his arm and smell the disinfectant in his room. Private room in St. Barts. He was able to tell by the building outside the window.<p>

For a moment, he lost track of why he was there and simply stared at the wallpaper on the ceiling. His head hurt. His body hurt. Why?

_Sherlock!_

Then he remembered the voice, John's voice. He remembered the impact when they fell into the water. Smell of Chlorine was still in his hair. It was hot. The fire. He shot the bomb. It blew up. John tackled him into the pool. John.

_Where's John?_

He got up almost instinctively despite his headache. John was not in this room. John was with him when they tried to drag each other out of the pool. But he was not here. He couldn't remember if John was injured. Damn the concussion.

He was trying to get out of bed when he noticed the gauze patched on his legs. Burns, mostly on his right side. John must have burns too, and concussion. But how bad?

He was lost in the moment until the door swung open and an exclamation came thundering into his ears. "Sherlock! For goodness sake! Lie down at once!" Before he could react Lestrade was at his bedside pushing him mindfully on to bed, but he resisted. The DI looked distressed. His eyes darted all over Sherlock as if he was seeing the injuries for the first time. "Good heaven. You got a concussion. Don't even think of getting out of bed today. Do you understand?"

"Where's John?" he asked.

Lestrade sighed heavily then stared right into his eyes. "Do you understand that you need rest, and you must not get out of bed, Sherlock?"

"Where is John, Greg?" he demanded.

Again, Lestrade was silent. "Do you understand me, Sherlock?"

The solemnity and distress in Lestrade were sending chills down Sherlock's spine. He just could not take it anymore. "I'm not your kid, Greg. WHERE IS JOHN? TELL ME!"

The DI seemed surprised for a moment, but regained his composure almost instantly. The concussion. It must be the concussion that was making Sherlock emotional.

"John is fine," he answered at last. "He is in a bit of a bad shape, but he is doing just fine."

"He's in ICU."

His voice trembled and he couldn't stop it. Even Lestrade was surprised with the emotion that was welling up in the past few minutes. He had to swallow as Sherlock broke almost unnoticeably in front of him. But he had been the closest thing to a friend to Sherlock in the past five years; he could tell.

"Sherlock," he said as he placed a hand on the man's shoulder, "believe me. John is fine. They have scanned his brain and there is no haemorrhage. They just need to monitor him a bit like they need to monitor you."

"But I'm not in ICU," Sherlock protested. Lestrade sighed heavily again, irritated.

"Can you please have some faith in people, Sherlock? I know we are idiots, but we have things we can do, lots of things. So now lie down. I need to talk to you."

Lestrade's calm voice seemed to be working well, because Sherlock obeyed albeit reluctantly. The emotion whirlwind was gone, leaving the familiar sociopath behind. "What then?"

The DI simply stared at him before he replied, "You don't remember what you said to me then? Not a surprise really. You were barely aware of anything." He sat down on the stool close by and Sherlock knew this would be a long talk. "Jim Moriarty. Barts. Molly- that is exactly what you told me. We weren't able to get hold of Molly Hooper last night, but she is here to work today. No suspicious movement has been going on around her. As for Jim Moriarty, no one found him. We are sure he is not dead – his snipers are- but he is definitely injured. He must be somewhere in London."

"You won't find him," said Sherlock. "He was here working in Barts's IT department. He was dating Molly Hooper, or pretended to be. She is in danger. The man will kill her because she knew him more intimately than anyone. And, no, there would be nothing left about him in Barts's system. He had definitely erased it last night before we met."

"But why must you meet him, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked him at last. He had always wanted to ask Sherlock this: why was Sherlock so keen to take this risk alone?

Like always, Sherlock looked at Lestrade like a nuisance, a distraction, an idiot. The only difference was this time he actually talked, "He did not deliberately pull me into this game, Greg. This is a costly game for him, a great risk. He would only do that if there is a payoff, more so if it would serve more than one purpose. He was distracting me from a secret document I was asked to recover, and tried to kill me at the same time."

Suddenly, it made perfect sense to Lestrade why each and everything must happen. First, it was to distract Sherlock, then to lure him in and finish him off. It is evident that Sherlock had miscalculated many things about Moriarty, but Lestrade was good enough a friend to not say anything.

"And John's the fifth?" he asked rather reluctantly. He didn't want Sherlock to turn emotional. He really didn't know how to handle that.

But Sherlock just nod, a nod which was his defeat. Lestrade suddenly felt the urge to pat Sherlock's shoulder but thought against it. Instead, he pulled out a tape recorder and placed it on the bedside table where both he and Sherlock could see. The detective was eying it disdainfully, of course. Sherlock was never before the victim he now was. "Can you describe to me in detail what happened at the pool last night?"

Sherlock sighed, but he soon proceeded with the story and the best deduction he could make.

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><p>It was nine in the morning, but it felt like the darkest hours of night. Even the warm cup of coffee in her hands could not cheer her up. She barely slept after Jim went missing, along with John and Sherlock. Sherlock- the very thought of him drowned her- Sherlock who broke her heart a hundred times over, Sherlock whose brilliant observation and deduction never ceased to amaze her, Sherlock who almost died last night.<p>

She shouldn't care really. She had told herself when she met Jim that she would get over him. Jim was so gentle, so kind and loving. Dear Lord, where was Jim? If Jim was here she might be able to cope with Sherlock injured. She never saw him so broken before. The nurse told her he would be fine. He was extremely lucky to have only minor injuries, but the burns looked horrible and who knew what a concussion might do.

The phone in her office rang and she had to swallow the lump in her throat and picked it up, trying her best to be her apparently cheerful self, but the tone on the phone had her heart sank so deep she couldn't breathe.

She never was called up to the office before, not with such a stern concerned tone she was getting. She expected something really bad. Maybe they found out that she had let Sherlock use body parts for his experiments. This was not good. She must stop thinking about Sherlock.

But that mantra was not able to stop her when she entered the office and saw a man standing at one side of the room. His black trench coat added with his height gave him a lean profile and his jet black hair plastered down to his high cheek bone only reminded her of Sherlock. But, no, this man was not Sherlock Holmes. His hair was straight, not wavy. Even the rain outside could not damped it so much as to change that. And he smiled at her a beautiful and warm smile she would never ever see from Sherlock Holmes.

It was the director's voice that stopped her from staring at the man as she introduced her to another man standing in the middle of the room - auburn wavy hair with a goatee and a funny smile. He offered her his hand and she clasped it like dear life. She was trying very hard not to think of the man who was looking at her right now.

"Ms. Hooper, Detective Inspector Aberline from Scotland Yard. He wants to have a few words with you."

"Oh, how can I help you?" she gave him her usual nervous smile and he smiled back, turning to her boss.

"Can I talk with Ms. Hooper outside? It would not take longer than an hour," he asked.

"Oh, please do," she replied, obviously nervous for some reason Molly did not know. The three of them walked out of the room in utterly awkward silence.

"I think we should go to a coffee shop. I haven't had a good cup of coffee yet," DI Aberline said with a grin that made him look like a child. She nodded although she was not entirely into the idea of getting another cup of coffee. A change in the surrounding might help her think straight.

But, no, it was harder than that, especially with the man sitting opposite of her. He offered to buy her a cup which she refused and settled with a cookie while Aberline waited in line for his.

At that moment, she didn't know yet why they were here. She wished she knew so she would have something to think about besides him and his slender hands hidden under the black leather gloves. His soft-looking hair damped by the rain framed his rather androgynous pale face so perfectly it could have been painted. The most startling feature was his eyes. She found it hard to look him in the eyes yet it was the very thing that reminded her he was not Sherlock. The orbs were warm mahogany unlike Sherlock's cold blue. And there are warm human emotions there displayed clear as day.

She was rather relieved when Aberline got back to the table. "Sorry about that," he said whilst sitting down with a thermos in his hand. "I haven't introduced you yet, have I? Ms. Hooper, this is Sebastian Michaelis, my assistant. It would actually be better if we can go back to the Yard, but well. Do you mind if we talk about your missing boyfriend here?"

That was when her eyes lighted up warily, "Jim? You know something about Jim?"

"Yes, Ms. Hooper," Aberline said rather solemnly that she wanted to shrink away from him.

But she couldn't. Even if worse come to worst, she must hear it out. "What happened to him? Did he…die?"

Aberline shook his head, "No, miss. You boyfriend is very positively alive. The problem is he is a wanted criminal. He arranged crimes. He also had arranged the serial bombing that Mr. Holmes had come across…"

His voice died out instantly when Molly started crying unashamedly. People were looking from every corner of the shop, even the baristas. Aberline seemed lost as to what he should do while Sebastian leaned forward and held her hand.

"We know you were never aware of his identity, Ms. Hooper," he whispered. "He was cunning like that. The problem is-"

"The problem is he used me!" she uttered bitterly. "He used me…. to get to Sherlock…like Sherlock used me to get to the corpses. What now? What do you want?"

She might have been screaming. It was so hard to keep the voice down. But Sebastian's expression did not change. Nothing in him wavered as he said, "We want you to be alive and safe, Ms. Hooper."

For a moment, she did not know what to say.

"He never is a man to stand in the line of fire. He is that kind of coward. He was playing a sick game with Mr. Holmes using you as a pawn. But by doing so, he is risking himself because now you know him. Ms. Hooper, besides Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson you are the only person who know his face. Sooner or later, he might come to kill you."

At this she started to cry again, this time for the lies she had believed in. Oh, Jim. Her gentle Jim. To think that it was all an act, all a lie, was too hard for her to cope with.

That was when Aberline intervened, "Ms. Hooper, I know this is hard for you. We can talk about him in detail some other time. But now you have to leave Barts. He knows you and this place too well."

She tumbled back almost instinctively, "You are being ridiculous. I cannot just leave my life like this."

"Sebastian knows people," Aberline assured her, eying the man at the same time. "We have talked to your boss and arranged to switch you with another pathologist in University College Hospital. We can find a new place for you to stay. We'll have people looking out for you. You just cannot be here, or any other places he knows he can find you. I believe you two weren't so involved yet, am I right?"

"No, we weren't," she replied then started crying again. This time Aberline reached out to soothe her.

They sat there quietly for a while until Molly's sobbing stopped. She looked up and Aberline smiled. Sebastian produced a card out of his shirt pocket and put it in her hand. "This is my number. You can contact me in case of emergency or if you feel you are threatened. Just feeling is enough," he said with a small smile. "I know this must be a tough day for you. You should take today off and start planning your moves. You are a smart woman, Ms. Hooper. You'll cope."

At this comment he smiled warmly. It seemed to touch Molly's cheeks and made her blush. No good. She should not get carried away. She was too hurt to feel anything for anyone because it would be selfish. She could't deny that Sebastian was an attractive man, but she knew what attracted her: his similarity with Sherlock Holmes, and the warmth Sherlock did not have.

"We should be off now, shouldn't we?" he said, addressing Aberline directly. The DI nodded before they both rose.

"Please excuse us, Ms. Hooper," said Aberline as he gave her his card. "And please keep in touch. We really want to know you are alright."

She nodded and smiled as they walked out the coffee shop into the rain. Her tears were still on her cheek but she felt much better now. Sebastian was right; she'd cope.

"Can you please not do that?"

Sebastian raised his eyebrows as he fastened his seat-belt. The rain had almost stopped now, but that had not lightened their mood if anything.

"Do what?" he asked innocently, knowing it will not fool the man.

And it really didn't, "Ms. Hooper, the poor girl just lost her boyfriend. Well, not literally but that is not the point. You were flirting with her."

"You might want to define 'flirting' for me if that is the case, because I did not flirt in a strict traditional sense."

"My point is she is depressed and sensitive. You see how she crumbled, don't you? Her sense of self-worth is terribly at stake. You don't want to just reach out and let her cling to you. Yet that is what you did. You invited her to yourself."

"Honestly, detective inspector, you are too orthodox," the man said with a smile. "Of course, I know what professionally you police would do, but I am not a police. And your practice is getting us nowhere."

Aberline grimaced, "Fine, I agree. That doesn't mean yours is better."

Sebastian did not object him. Aberline knew he was right, but he also knew that Sebastian would never agree with him on this and now he was obviously going to involve himself personally with Molly Hooper. The problem was he knew exactly why Sebastian would do that. "Next time you meet her tell her outright that you will not be in any kind of relationship with her, so she is mindful of what you are doing when you comfort her, understood?"

"Yes," Sebastian replied. "You really think she will come to me?"

"Of course, she will. You bloody moron. How many women do you think I see fall under your spell when you are on cases?"

Sebastian almost laughed at that, but settled with snickers which only irritated Aberline even more. Oh yes, Aberline was jealous, deadly jealous. He was aware of how unattractive he was, how his unintentional goofiness sometimes cost him his dream girls. He didn't need to be reminded of that with Sebastian tailing behind him, thank you.

"You know, I wish 'he' is here gathering the information for the case himself. At least he's not attracting too much attention like you do."

At this Sebastian just shook his head, "He can't. He's busy. You know that really well."

"As if he won't send you if he isn't busy," Aberline mumbled as he pulled his car to the sidewalk just behind Scotland Yard. He never risked parking close to the main entrance given the chance that people might see him and Sebastian together. No one was supposed to know of this… arrangement. And he felt comfortable leaving it that way. "Off you go," he said, clearly dismissing the man, "and give my regards to the 'young master'."

Sebastian simply smiled at his sarcasm. "I will," he replied and slipped out of the car.

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><p><strong>Another Note<strong>: I might need some help on this one since I've NEVER been to London or to England. I don't really know if some of the stuffs I write here make sense in the British context. If you spot something that is out of place, please feel free to leave your suggestions. And please read & review. :)


	2. Chapter 2: Coming Home

**Author Note:** Actually, this should have been chapter 1 part 2 since it's still revolved around the Sherlock cast. Next chapter will be an introduction to a major character from Black Butler cast. I really hope I can write him right. This chapter is rather short, but next one will be coming soon. Promise. :)

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><p><strong>Part 2: Coming Home<strong>

John couldn't be happier when he finally got back to Baker Street. Three weeks in the hospital had been far too long even with Sherlock popping in and out for a visit almost daily. He was glad to learn that his friend had only mild burns and concussion but barely any other bruises or wounds and was discharged after a week. John, however, got a first and second degree burns on his back, his arms, and his legs. He suffered from concussion for pretty much the first week, and got a few scratches for the flying scraps. The rest of him was fine, but they made it clear that they would not let him out unless they were absolutely sure. It took three weeks before they declared his burns healed enough to be out of highly sanitary environment.

Funny thing was Sherlock had been whining about it more than he did. He would sit by John's bed commenting on anything from the hospital food to the nurses, the doctors, and the world in general before asking him when he would be discharged. It was always the same answer and Sherlock always gave his dramatic complaint on how obscenely long these weeks would be. John would never admit it out loud, but it was really nice to know Sherlock needed his company.

He should have realized, however, that it was Sherlock being bored. Obviously there was no case for them after the pool because Lestrade thought they need a break for recovery. But when he was finally discharged and Lestrade came to pick him up, he learned that even the serial-bombing case was no longer accessible to them anymore.

"He had been impossible for the past two weeks," admitted Lestrade while driving John back to Baker Street. The DI did not need to do this, of course, but Sherlock's boredom had been too much of a torture that the DI decided to trade this lift for a couple of days of peace.

"Can imagine why," John replied with a snicker before he frowned, "but why?"

"I don't know myself," replied the DI, "I talked to the commissioner once. He would not elaborate on who is on it or why the transfer."

John could almost smell Mycroft, but he kept his mouth shut. Mentioning the Secret Service was of no good to them.

The car pulled gently in front of 221B, the same old building he remembered, and John sighed since it means question time was over. "Say hi to Sherlock for me," said the DI.

"Will do," John replied as he walked up to an empty and eerily quiet 221B Baker Street.

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><p>Apparently the peace treaty between Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade did not have any effect on Sally Donovan since the Freak had been sitting in front of her desk interrogating her for a good thirty minutes now. "I simply don't know, got it?" She fumed. It was not like she was happy with the transfer. No. Sergeant Donovan was the type to see things through. Whichever was her case, she treated it like the most important matter in the world. To have that taken away with a threat to never see the conclusion, to never understand what exactly had happened, was beyond tolerable. She had stormed into the commissioner's room once with Lestrade to have them both scorned by Commissioner Randall himself for not knowing their places. Bloody well they did, if not for the prick being his irritable self and pulled them out of the case they were both emotionally invested in. That was unprofessional, she knew. But unlike Randall up in his high ivory tower, she actually cared.<p>

That was why she was so irritated by the Freak who was there for fun and game. Like Randall, Sherlock didn't care about the people involved. But unlike Randall, he actually saved the day a couple of times, if Sally was honest with herself. That was why Sally ranked Sherlock slightly better than her own boss.

"But there must be some kind of lead," Sherlock muttered, "He won't assign it randomly, will he?"

"You don't know him, Freak," she warned.

"Fine. I just assumed your insufferable lots have more brains than the normal population. Seems like I was wrong."

And Sally just wanted to slap him for that disrespectful comment. Of course, a bunch of them could be declared as useless- useless people are everywhere- but there were people like Lestrade and Anderson who actually were driving them forward. "Look, Freak. I don't have all day to argue or badmouth my boss with you. So why don't you just go home to John. He is already home, isn't he?"

Sherlock didn't even bother to look at his watch, probably glancing off something as he said, "Yes, John should be home by now. That is why I want the case, Sally. We can be all on it now."

"Oh, give John a break, wouldn't you? He had been strapped with Semtex just three weeks ago on THIS case."

"That is precisely why we must make haste," Sherlock snarled at her. "Give me a lead, I'll find out who, and I won't bother you anymore. Deal?"

Sally just shook her head. Of course, she would have told him by now who she suspected got the case just to escape the Freak for the rest of the ordeal. But she had no idea, absolutely none. And she knew Sherlock won't leave her alone until he had one.

"Let me ask around a bit, okay?" she offered. "I cannot guarantee anything, but office gossip is a good source for leads. I'll try and see if I can learn anything from it."

She was unprepared to see Sherlock smiled. "Thank you," he said.

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><p>Girls were usually a good source of gossip and information, albeit a great investment of time. That was why Sally was only on and off her office chitchatting with her fellow women of the force; she was usually pretty busy but especially on the Bomber case. Well, she had the time to hang around in the coffee room now thanked to Randall. He couldn't blame her for this.<p>

Turned out they knew nothing of it either. In fact, it was them who was trying to get the inside scoop of the most notorious scandal in the recent history of Scotland Yard. No one expected the commissioner to just pull someone out of the case without an evident reason, especially not those with a good history for solving eerie crimes. If this was done with a good reason, it definitely had escaped any speculation.

After a while and good deal of ranting from Sally's part, they changed to the usual office chitchat as who had been dating whom and all that sort. They were missing Emily, the Yard's most efficient internal informant. Good thing they were rather close before Sally was involved with Richard Anderson.

"You remember Fred Aberline?" one of the girls said, "Seems like he just got himself another weird case again."

Sally's eyebrows quirked at the mention of a 'weird case', though she kept quiet and took a sip of her cuppa.

"I saw him walking out this morning and got into a car with a gorgeous guy. He looks like a model, really, and definitely not from Scotland Yard."

"Oh, you mean the guy Emily calls Death Angel?" another girl asked delightfully, almost dreamy. Sally felt like she had missed out on something.

"Probably, yeah. Dark hair, pale skin, around six-foot tall, drop-dead gorgeous," her friend explained and the little squeal confirmed it was the guy they were talking about.

"Death Angel?" Sally asked, just couldn't help it. The name was too cheesy.

"Yeah, that's what Emily calls him. She has been trying to find out about him for ages. Too bad he only comes with bad news for Fred. The other time anyone saw him was the case in Kelvin's manor. Poor Fred couldn't sleep for days after walking out of that hellhole. Seemed like there have been things going on there for years but no one ever noticed; we never noticed. Emily said it's the bloke who helped Fred get on the right track to Kelvin's manor."

"But why would he do that?" Sally asked despite herself.

"Who knows? No one ever met him. His name is never mentioned anywhere, and he never comes into the office. It's always Fred going out to meet him."

"Maybe he's just Fred's boyfriend," one of the girl suggested. Sally snorted.

"But him helping Fred make sense though," another girl suggested. "Not like I think Fred is incapable of his job, but really he has too good a heart. He shouldn't be dealing with that kind of, you know, gruesome deaths."

It was not like Sally did not know Fred Aberline. It's precisely because she knew him that this knowledge came to her as a surprise. The gentle Fred Aberline was on a case as gruesome as the Kelvin's manor? She could still remember how the picture of the basement had her on the verge of vomiting. The dried blood was all over the wall. Bodies, tens of them and mostly children, lied blackened on the marble floor. The fire had spared them a lot of detail, but that wasn't nearly enough to make it tolerable. She wasn't on the case, but that didn't mean she was not affected; everyone was affected. The public was spared the ghastly graphic, fortunately.

It was hard for her to believe this day-dreamed hypothesis that Fred was actually led to the Manor by another party outside Scotland Yard. Well, she had her associate, but Fred breaking the rules? She simply didn't believe things without firm evidence.

But if this was true, she might have a lead to Moriarty's files.

* * *

><p>The flat was utterly silent as Sherlock would have suspected when he returned with Mycroft sitting on his favourite couch and John, his admirable John, was trying to be nice but failed to strike up any real conversation. The tea on the table was already cold, so he had been here at least for a good fifteen minutes or so, a great deal of time for someone as busy as his brother.<p>

Sherlock did not bother to ask why he was here. He simply strode to him and snarled, "Why did you pull us off the case?"

Mycroft did not flinch; he probably saw this coming from miles away. He sighed and glanced up at Sherlock. "I did not."

"Don't BS with me, Mycroft. The commissioner pulled Lestrade off the case and forbade any further inquiry. If this was not your doing then who?"

Mycroft gave an annoyed huff before he replied, "I simply have no hand in that. However, this does work to my liking and I will not interfere with this decision. You have to let the case go."

"And let Moriarty roam London at will?" Sherlock swirled dramatically in the middle of the room. "I am his only match if you are not so concerned as to capture him yourself. Scotland Yard will not have a chance."

"Indeed the Yard won't," Mycroft replied with his usual nonchalant tone, "And as far as I am concerned, you are NOT his match either."

John quickly turned to Sherlock at the comment. The man was staring back at Mycroft with the most intense glare he had ever seen the entire time John had known him. Sherlock was furious, so furious he was probably ready to strangle Mycroft at any given opportunity.

Yet Mycroft was not affected by the glare. He raised his chin a bit and stared back at his brother. "You have failed, Sherlock. You fail to understand the situation. Moriarty is a sage in his own environment. He has people and weapons at his disposal. You don't have a chance against him since you are just a man. You know that, don't you? That was why you took the Bruce-Partington plan to him as bait and compromised the whole country for that matter. Still, it didn't work. You fail to understand him. I am rather glad you don't. It would be such a shame to see you fall to his level."

John didn't have to count the word fail himself since Sherlock's expression sank every time Mycroft uttered it. He felt like he need to say something, but all things he was able to think of failed to counter Mycroft's. He wanted to say Sherlock had known Moriarty was a consulting criminal. Sherlock knew he was after the Bruce-Partington plan. Sherlock knew the Game was to distract him yet he managed both side of the arena neatly. Those were a lot for a person to figure out with so little clue and so little time. The only thing, if anything, that Sherlock failed to see was the man was a psychopath, and psychopaths got bored.

The room went quiet except for Sherlock's heavy breathing. He was exhaling like a race horse ready to pounce forward at any signal given, probably at Mycroft's neck. But John was surprise to see the look of surrender on his friend's face. Sherlock was beaten.

"Now what?" John asked, eying both Sherlock and Mycroft. "You said so yourself that the Yard is no match to Moriarty. Sherlock, even though he did fail, is the closest to him in terms of intelligence. If he is off the case then-"

"You don't need to concern yourself too much, doctor. You are just discharged after all," replied Mycroft with a warm grin on his face that was more sinister than anything. "You and Sherlock can just continue to live your normal lives solving crimes. Only this time, I expect him to not deliberately break loose from the surveillance team again."

John could't help staring at Sherlock who made no further comment on the matter. "So you will take care of this?" asked the doctor.

"Not me personally. No. Like I said, I have no hand in this," replied Mycroft as he stood up and started towards the door. "But someone will. Good bye, Sherlock. Dr. Watson."

Sherlock did not reply and John simply nodded as the man disappeared down the stairs. As soon as the door was shut, Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa, coat and all, and sulked like John had never seen him before.

John was tempted to ask if he was alright, but that didn't sound like the right question. Of course, Sherlock was not alright. He had been insulted by his empowering elder brother regarding his much cherished intelligence. How could anyone, even those who did not possessed Sherlock's ego, feel all right?

"He is right," said Sherlock as he stared at the ceiling, "I failed."

"No, Sherlock, don't listen to him," replied John. Somewhere in him the anger towards Mycroft was boiling relentlessly. "He did not move his ass out of his office, so he has no right to insult you. You did more than anyone could have done."

"Yet I put your life in danger," His friend muttered, still not looking him in the eye, "I'm sorry, John."

John moved to his friend's side immediately. "Look, Sherlock, it's all fine. We make mistakes, and that's fine. I'm still alive, we are still alive, and that is all that matters."

At this Sherlock turned his head and stared at him. "Really?" he asked.

John couldn't help smiling. "Really, Sherlock," he laughed, "Geez, it's nice of you to be this upset though."

"Because I care" Sherlock replied. His eyes were fixed on John the whole time. "I do have a heart."

"Yes, you do" was John's reply, "and a good one too."

* * *

><p>TBC.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3: The Sky is Blue

**Author Note:** Finally here at last! Hope you enjoy this one.

* * *

><p><strong>Part 3: the Sky is Blue<strong>

It had been three weeks since he had been to work, and as mundane as the job might be, John was thrilled to be back in his environment. The surgery was a good place to feed his need for normalcy especially after being strapped with a bomb right above his heart. He needed normalcy now more than he ever needed it.

Sarah had been the provider of normalcy during those three weeks when she came by the hospital to visit. It was a great break from Sherlock and the doctors and just pretended for a moment that he had a normal life of a normal citizen. He knew, however, that Sarah was rather upset with the abnormal side of his life. She had stuck around after being tied to a chair and almost died, but – like she said – there was a limit to what a girl could handle. When she saw John in the hospital for the first time, she broke down.

He had explained to her that it wasn't as horrible as it looked, but he got the whole thing wrong. Sarah was able to handle the sight of the injury; that was nothing for a doctor. It was the fact that it was John that actually broke her. She cared for him more than John could ever wish for, but she was a normal civilian; she was not used to see misfortunes befall ones close to her.

She had asked him to stop the chase. He didn't reply. He just couldn't. He told her all he knew despite the fact that he probably shouldn't. He needed her to understand how dangerous Moriarty was and that no one else but Sherlock was on par with him, and that Sherlock needed his help. He'd always be in danger.

And Sarah understood, or at least resigned to the fact that this would be the way of life for John. It had always been, really, or else why would he enroll in the military and go to Afghanistan. It's in his blood and bones; he's a hunt dog. He could not live a normal life no matter how much he wanted to.

He had no idea yet where their relationship might go from now. He needed normalcy for a while to think; that is, if Sherlock didn't get his hand on Moriarty's case so soon.

He stopped by at a coffee shop that morning for his dose of caffeine. He had to admit that he missed the shop a little in the past three weeks. The Willow's Cup caught his eye since the very first moment he came around the corner for an interview because it was conveniently close and the name did not quite sound like a coffee shop. He learnt later that the shop was originally a Chinese tea house adapting itself into the modern coffee business, therefore retaining the name the Willow's Cup bestowed by the former owner.

John hadn't visited the place very often, but he did like it for its warm serenity. The place, despite being very westernized, had a certain Zen atmosphere John couldn't quite pinpoint. He was not the type for New Age things but, like normalcy, a small dose of it once in a while was enough to keep him in balance with all the insanity in his life.

Like any other time, John had waited in line to pay for his morning coffee when the dear cashier smiled at him and said, "It's already taken care of, sir."

He couldn't help raising an eyebrow. "You mean…"

"The gentleman over there has paid this one for you," she replied and waved her hand a bit toward a table in the corner. The thought of having an elderly gentleman paying for his coffee had actually crept John out for a moment. But when he glanced over his shoulder for a sight of the said gentleman, he saw a boy - no, a young man rather, but still very young. He was sitting by the window totally absorbed in his book.

John was about to ask if that was the gentleman she was speaking of when the barista handed him his coffee and the cashier already addressed another customer. John resigned to taking the coffee and walking over to the corner, very mindful to catch the eyes of the young man before he actually arrived there.

But the young man was still as indifferent to his surroundings as ever. He couldn't have been far out of his teen yet with his lanky profile suggesting a growth spurt, but the thick book on the table was telling college student. His face was a bit boyish if not for his immense concentration and a grace almost of an aristocrat as he flipped the page and took down a few notes. It was then that John saw his folded cane hanging off his backpack, and possibly the knot for his eye patch tied up at the back of his head.

By then he was standing really, really close that John could not understand why the young man did not notice him yet. So he cleared his throat and struck up the conversation, "Hello."

The young man startled. He looked up from his book with his right eye hidden under a black eyepatch and, at the sight of John, smiled. "Good morning, Dr. Watson."

That surprised John more than he would ever let on. The thought of a complete stranger knowing his name and face made him cringe, then came the thought of Moriarty -but that man wouldn't have been this obvious trying to contact John using one of his agent. Then, again…

He cleared his throat again and said, "Well, umm, I want to thank you for the coffee."

"No need," replied the young man, "Think of it as a home-coming gift, Dr. Watson. I'm just glad you are home safely after all the things that had been going on. I read your blog. It must have been awful, hadn't it?"

"It had, indeed," replied John, not knowing if he should feel applauded or not. Sherlock was right; his blog had a wider readership than he had expected, Moriarty aside. "But how did you know it is me?"

"You put your picture on your blog."

"Ah, right." For the first time, John felt a little stupid doing so. It was a spur of the moment, really, when he was so irritated by the fact that the normalcy in his life, Sarah, was threatened by people who mistook him for Sherlock Holmes. At least he wanted to keep Sarah safe. He never thought of anyone recognizing him from just that one photo. "And your name is?" he asked.

"Ciel, Ciel Phantomhive," replied the young man as he offered his hand. "Pardon my rudeness, Dr. Watson. I should have introduced myself."

"Don't worry about it," replied John, eying him all that while. "You're a college student?"

"Yes, I'm studying psychology at University College London," the young man confirmed with a faint smile.

"Oh, nice." was John's only reply. It explained the _Physiology of Behaviour_ staring back at him from the table top. He got it good alright. "I have to go now, thanks for the coffee again. And nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you, Dr. Watson," replied the young man. John returned the smile and walked towards the door.

* * *

><p>Turned out that was going to be just the first of their strange meetings. About a week later, as John was going home from his half-day shift, he spotted the young man at the same window in the Willow's Cup reading yet another book. This time he had a bigger table, a laptop, and a friendly waitress coming over to give him another cup of coffee.<p>

That was when the young man looked up that he spotted John just across the street and smiled. He did not wave or pay too high an attention to John but just recognition before he turned to his book again. This indifference somehow intrigued John. He read John's blog but never commented. He bought him a cup of coffee but did not show a keen interest in becoming friends. He didn't quite know what to make of it.

Anyhow, he wanted a good cup of tea, and the Willow's Cup -being a tea house before- brew great Oolongs. So, he crossed the street and walked in for his own afternoon treat. Of course, this time it was not paid for. The young man didn't even look at him when he walked in, again too absorbed in his book to notice anything else.

"He's a regular here," said the cashier, obviously spotting him stealing too many glances.

"Is he?" John remarked. That was quite classy for a student. Fresh coffees were, of course, not cheap.

The cashier giggled at his obvious undertone. "We are his free cup of coffee. The owner owed him big last year for clearing his name off the suspect list on human trafficking. This is his privilege," she explained, "I can't imagine why the Yard thought Mr. Lau was involved, though. He's such a nice guy, honestly. All of us here will say so too. I'm glad Ciel proved them wrong."

John had to eye the young man again. He had proven the Yards wrong at this young an age? John could see Sherlock in the making.

His cup of Oolong came with a distinct calming fragrance. He picked it up, thanked the barista and was about to turn and walked off when his and Ciel's eyes met. The young man gave him another smile, not bother to wave or say hi. It was out of his good manner that John walked over to greet him.

"Studying?" he asked. The young man nodded. The eyepatch on his right eye bobbed a little.

"Assignments," Ciel replied, "I hadn't been in class much, so there has been a lot of catching up to do."

"Busy chasing criminals?" remarked John and Ciel giggled.

"She told you about Lau, didn't she?" the young man said while sipping his coffee. "That was the only time I crossed with Scotland Yard, but everyone here seems to remember it as being the thing I do."

"Can imagine why," John replied. Ciel smiled and offered him a seat. John could have excused himself at that moment, but he was too curious to do so. Instead, he sat down as offered and asked, "What happened then?"

It was the kind of question he would ask Sherlock in an evening when his flatmate returned with a bruise or two. It never occurred to him that it would fit to ask anyone else this very question, not even people from the Yard.

Ciel raised an eyebrow at the question, but upon seeing John's keen interest, he replied, "Scotland Yard was after a ring of human traffickers bringing women in from China at the time. You might have heard something about it, probably from the newspaper, but usually what you'd see is only the end product of a long and tedious investigation. These people are very cunning, and they are ready to jump the ship as soon as a threat comes their way. So, the Yard, being as desperate as they were, charged almost everyone they suspect so they can freeze their movement for a while. You probably notice Lau is Chinese. He also co-owns a small web-hosting company with servers just upstairs which, unfortunately, was used to store the data of the women they brought into London. The Yard immediately suspected Lau to collaborate with the ring and arrested him."

"Just like that?" John asked. He was frowning in disbelief. "But it can be his customer put it there, right?"

"That's right," Ciel replied, "But, like I said, they wanted to have everyone who was possibly involved no matter how weak a link it might be. Lau was inevitably on the list. You can imagine what that would do to his business."

John nodded a thoughtful affirmative before asking the million-pound question, "And how do you know he wasn't involved?"

"His name. Lau is a Cantonese name, not Mandarin which is the official language of mainland China where the women came from. If Lau was involved, they needed to communicate with him which is not possible verbally since he and his family migrated from Hong Kong in 1995 when Hong Kong was still under the United Kingdom. He speaks a unique variation of Cantonese spoken only in Hong Kong and English. By ruling verbal communication in Mandarin, they were left with using either English or in writing. Both by far are easier to prove."

It wasn't a Sherlockian deduction, but it fascinated John alright. The fact that just the name had persuaded him to cross with Scotland Yard for a man was rather amazing, like when Sherlock described to him how a missing pair of shoes had led him to believe Carl Powers was murdered.

"So they found nothing?"

"Nothing in writing. Nothing in English. No," replied the young man. "These officers are hardworking people. They meant to do good, but they had jump to conclusion before a proper investigation was done and dragged a perfectly honest citizen down into the pit. That was the only thing I cannot tolerate."

And Ciel had dragged Lau right up. No wonder Lau appreciated the help so much he gave Ciel a lifetime free drink ticket at his place. That was nothing compared to being accused of a crime you could hardly be proven guilty or innocent otherwise.

Again, John found himself uttering the very line he never thought he would utter to anyone else but Sherlock, "That is… quite fascinating."

But unlike Sherlock who seemed taken aback by the John forthright praise, the young man took it modestly, "Thank you, ."

John was about to ask what then had been keeping the young man from going to class when the waitress walked up to them and cleared her throat. "It's about time to go to class, Ciel."

"Really?" the young man glanced at his watch with an audible hiss of frustration, "Thank you very much, Laureen. Sorry Dr. Watson, I really have to go," he said, not wasting a minute as he packed up his book, notes, and laptop. "It has been a pleasure talking to you. I hope we'll see each other again soon."

"I would certainly think so," John replied as Ciel nodded and flied out the door and onto the busy street of London.

John sat there for a moment, contemplating whether he should sit there and enjoy the afternoon or head back to Baker Street. It wasn't a tough decision, really. He had something he wanted to know.

* * *

><p>"Why Ciel Phantomhive?"<p>

John startled when Sherlock, apparently had breached his password-protected laptop, asked him out of the blue. Well, not actually out of the blue since Sherlock was probably using the internet and John had been on the internet since he came back searching for anything related to the peculiar name of Ciel Phantomhive until his stomach demanded an attention and John decided to cook for the evening.

Sherlock had came in and flopped on the coach like a giant vulture not minutes after. His face was unhappy as ever despite him being out and about all day. John deduced that there was no sign of Moriarty and no case yet from Lestrade. And now with Molly gone from Barts, Sherlock had lost his access to body parts for his favourite pastime. He was practically left with nothing and had been unbearable for the past couple of weeks or so.

Even so, it was quite strange for Sherlock, bored to death or not, to be interested in something as pedestrian as John's interest. "Well, I met him earlier this afternoon…Why?"

The ice-blue eyes shot up at John at that very moment. He had a vague feeling that he had said something interesting. "You met him? Where?" Sherlock asked.

"Around the surgery, and you're avoiding my question, Sherlock."

"I'm not avoiding the question; I'm simply gathering data. What is he doing now?"

"Studying Psychology in college and…wait, Sherlock, you know him?"

"I know his name," replied Sherlock as he resumed doing whatever he was doing, "His family was murdered ten years ago. He was the sole survivor. Unforgettable case, but you already know that, don't you?"

Unforgettable indeed, especially after he spent hours reading through the accounts of the event from various newspapers and even mystery websites. John had seen various pictures including the burnt Phantomhive estate. In that building destroyed by arson, they said, the Yard found three bodies: a man and a woman identified as Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive, and their family pet dog.

Knowing that Vincent and Rachel were recalled as good and lovely people had already made John feel sick in the stomach, but knowing that the dog was killed with its gut cut open was unthinkable. The Yard was perplexed by the whole scenario, not to mention that the arson destroyed everything and practically sent it into cold case before the investigation could even begin.

They focused instead on the search for the couple's ten-year-old son Ciel who went missing. Nothing surfaced for a month, a time long enough for anyone to presume the boy dead, until Ciel himself was found in the roughest shape a ten-year-old could be in. His re-emerge from a mass-murder and the surfacing of a possible modern satanic cult in the suburb of London with detail sick enough to make a grown man faint.

Again the Yard came to a dead-end when the mansion that hosted the rituals was burnt down in arson. They recovered a multitude of bodies in the place, mostly adults who were the cult followers but also of children between three to ten years old. They, however, found no link between the first and the second murder only that the boy they presumed dead was held captive by the cult and -according to Ciel's account of that terrible month- kept him as pet, beat him at will, and forced him to join their rituals. A less legitimate website speculated the use of the boy and other children as sacrifices, and might engaged them in many unspeakable acts relating to myths around satanic cults. John was sure they were just fantasies simply because he was not able to imagine those gruesome theories to be true.

However, the truth remained that Ciel Phantomhive had lived through two ghastly murders, and a month of constant torture that resulted in the loss of his right eye.

All the time in the kitchen, John was thinking of that black eyepatch and the young man's demeanour. It was as if in there was an old soul in there rather than a twenty-year-old college student. If he didn't find some kind of spiritual sanctuary, John would have to assume that his therapist was a miracle worker to be able to get the boy on track with life as if nothing had happened. Ten years was a long time, but not so for a ten-year-old to heal from that kind of scar that would leave any child in disdain of humanity for the rest of their lives.

John had seen that in Afghanistan. He was never able to forget it.

That was not something John wanted to talk about, so he deliberately changed the subject as he turned off the stove, "How about you? How is your day?"

He knew Sherlock knew just by the look on his face, but Sherlock made no objection. He just sighed dramatically and slumped back into the coach. "Nothing much. Sally hasn't been able to track down who got the case, as expected of her. And no trace of Molly. No one would speak. Not enough data to go on."

"What about your clients?" asked John, "You mentioned you got clients contacting you while I was in the hospital, didn't you? Why don't you take up their cases?"

"Boring," Sherlock muttered. His fingers danced on the keyboard as he spoke, "Not worth my time."

"You have plenty of time now."

"That is not quite true."

"But you're here bored out of your mind. How can that not be true?"

"Moriarty."

That one single word sent chills down John's spine, but he fought to remain composed. He must not be disturbed, not by that name. "So you're saying you are not going to take cases because that bloke is on the loose."

"I did not say that."

"You're implying it," John said as he turned towards Sherlock, "Then tell me why you are sulking here. You could have gone to Paris for what I know."

"Because he'll make his move in London," Sherlock replied without even looking at John who was more exasperated than ever.

"He could have been anywhere by now. And London is targeted because you're here."

"Wrong."

Even though Sherlock would not elaborate, John guts feeling told him instantly that, "You think it'll be me?"

Sherlock did not reply, did not look up. He kept on typing.

Until John asked, "Why?"

The delicate fingers came to a halt as the consulting detective looked up. John could tell that something had stirred behind that cold blue eyes as the man replied, "I thought that much is obvious."

John was at a lost. He knew Moriarty had targeted him once, but that was to surprise Sherlock, to get him completely off-guard. But with Sherlock fully aware of the possibility, why would Moriarty repeat himself?

Sherlock looked at him and he knew the man knew he needed a clarification, but the consulting detective diverted his gaze back to screen and simply continued typing.

* * *

><p>TBC.<p>

**Author Note: **I really hope the deduction on Lau's name is correct. I got the idea from my grandmother who is Chinese. She was trying to learn Mandarin when she was 60 something and it had been tough for her. She might have grown up outside China, but she had been speaking a dialect of the language her whole life. That's my impression of how different they are. If there's a loophole there, let me know and I'll fix it. I don't like loopholes.

And I hope I got Ciel's personality right. He's my favorite character in Black Butler, so I'm trying my best to stick to Yana-sensei's portrayal of him rather than the anime series or the musicals which make him into this grumpy arrogant little tweenie (at least to me). And he's older here than in the original story, so I try to make him more refined and more independent. And, yes, he'll giggle and smile.


	4. Chapter 4: The Storm

**Author Note: **Back to our dear Molly. I feel like I'm bullying her in this fic or something, but she just keep having a crush with the wrong guy. And as Black-Butler fans know, it's unhealthy to be involved with Sebastian Michaelis. Really.

btw, I won't be uploading the next part for a while, unfortunately. Read and review please. Suggestions are also welcome for speedy recovery from writer block. :)

I hope no one minds me mentioning names of places here. These are all fictional characters (all belong to their respective creators) and events, so I'm not implying anything of this sort happens. Don't sue me.

* * *

><p><strong>Part 4: The Storm<strong>

When she first entered the mortuary of University College Hospital, Molly was crept out for a good few moments. There was an eerie atmosphere to the place that made her hairs stand on ends. She was sure it wasn't because of the chill air in the basement or the conditioned air in the morgue. Something just felt…wrong.

The most eerie thing was probably the director of the mortuary himself. He popped out of a coffin to greet her on the first day she worked there with a Cheshire-cat smile too large for his face. Molly never had a chance to look him in the eye. She had only a few glimpses of the gleaming orbs under his grey long fringes. How he managed to work with such obstructive hairdo was beyond her.

His habits were, unfortunately, even more eerie than his look. Molly spotted him drinking tea from a beaker and keeping his cookie jar among other post-mortem equipments. It was not sanitary, and not even sane. She could not understand how he was allowed to work with such loose practice. Luckily nothing dramatically wrong had happened. He was weird, was insane if Molly was allowed to use the word, but he was also very efficient in anything he did. And to be fair, he was very nice to her. At least for now everything seemed to be fine.

It changed from fine to good when DI Aberline or Sebastian dropped by to check on her. Aberline always came with cookies which soon were stored in the jar she had forbidden herself from even touching. Sebastian usually came with nothing but his smile and concerns, asking her ceaselessly how she had been doing or if there was anything strange going on around her. It was only on those days that Molly felt like she was herself again. She didn't have anyone to talk to here since she was trapped down in the mortuary most of the time. The director was the last person on her current list that she really wanted to go into the detail of her life with, and the DI was usually too busy to stay for long. Sebastian had the time and the ears for anything she wanted to say no matter how stupid it sounded.

But it had been two weeks since his last visit, and she had to admit that she had been lonely, very lonely. In a time like this her thoughts often drifted to Sherlock. At Barts, the days were rarely boring or ordinary with Sherlock around conducting one of his experiments. They were great breaks from her routine and being able to witness the moment of discovery had given her much thrill. She never was a science geek, but she did like science. Seeing Sherlock doing his thing had always been her joy.

Come to think of it, she hadn't heard anything about him since she left Barts. She wondered if he was alright.

"Is it done yet, Ms. Hooper?" She jumped a bit by the eerie voice that called her from behind. The director was eying with something that was equivalent to a frown. "My, my, you are unlike yourself today. Is there something of the matter?"

She smiled then shook her head. "Nothing, sir. I'm done with the examination. Do you need me to take the body back to-"

"Not for a while," replied the director with his signature grin, "But I'm concerned, my dear. You have been down lately. Is there something you want to talk about?"

She would have said 'nothing', but 'nothing' was not the right word and rather impolite considering that it would be an outright lie and he would know. Despite his eeriness, he was nice, and she liked that part of him.

"I'm a little worried about a friend. I haven't heard from him for quite some time," she said.

The director looked her up and down. (Don't ask her how she knew. She just knew.) "Is it Sebastian Michaelis?"

Her shook her head but did so a bit overdramatically that the director took it as a yes instead. He gave a disapproving huff as he continued, "Seriously, that bloke needs to learn when to stop. He had been giving you misleading signals for a month already, but that is his usual way around women, unfortunately. You, on the other hand my dear, should be wary of him and of your heart. Don't trust him too much."

"Why?"

Her question even caught her off-guard. She never thought she would dare ask. She was not so stupid as to not notice people trying to warn her off Sebastian. Aberline had given her hints. The director himself threw a couple of hints to bugger-off at Sebastian in a couple of his visits when he had lingered around too long. None of them explained to her why they tried so hard in a so subtle way to keep them apart. She had assumed it was because they were supposed to have a professional relationship, so she never asked the million-pound question.

Truth was she was curious. And if the director was willing to share, she wanted to know.

The director seemed to ponder over the subject a little before he nodded. He still had that disturbing grin on his face. "You don't really need to know this, you see. But there is no end in sight for your current situation, so I think you should at least be aware. That Sebastian - he's a psychopathic killer."

She stared back at him for good few seconds unable to reply. She had waited for some kind of mind-blowing revelation, something more than saying he was a psycho. "You're kidding me," she said with a smile. She almost snickered actually, because that just sound too strange for Sebastian - the ever-gentleman, caring Sebastian.

"I wish I did," the director replied with a wide grin reciprocating hers but there was something so solemn about it that Molly's smile slowly faded. No, he was absolutely serious. "No one has any evidence to that. We all only have suspicions. I've been working here for decades, my dear, I see all sort of people coming through here dead or alive. He is - how should I put it - a rare kind. He comes in with dead criminals far too many time for too many cases that I can only assume they were not coincidences. Even poor Aberline tried to confront him once, but psychopaths like him are too clever. And besides, the poor DI doesn't have much option. After all, if you are after a psychopath, the best sniffer dog would be another psychopath. Better still are the ones that are collared, which are very rare for the species. Sebastian happens to be exactly that. He kills but only for his master like a good hunt dog would."

He was still smiling at that point, but there was nothing on his face now but pity. And Molly's stomach flipped badly. "But he doesn't look like a psycho at all. How can you be sure?-"

"Did your ex-boyfriend seem like a psychopath to you?"

Molly shook her head bitterly. Jim was gentle; Jim was a good man. She could never even suspect him to be a monster.

"You have your answer," the director said with a gentle smile now, patting her crown like she was his little girl. She even felt like one. "Psychopaths can be very good at concealing who they are. But no matter how normal they seem, they are still predators. Just remember what your ex-boyfriend did to you when you are around Sebastian; they are the same kind after all. If you don't want to get hurt again, don't even think of putting your trust in that man."

She didn't know how to reply as the director walked away humming happily to himself like always. She couldn't believe it. She could not see Sebastian in the same light as Jim. No, if she was very honest with herself, she still could not see Jim in that light either. To her, he was still the gentle Jim. The director was right; she had no idea. She just thought she knew. It was wishful thinking.

She was deep in her own thought when the door of the mortuary swung open and she jumped at the squeak it made. Worse still was when she turned around and found Sebastian, the tall elegant Sebastian, walking in with much concern on his face. "Good morning, Ms. Hooper, Director," he said with an obvious frown as he approached her. "Are you alright?"

It was then that Molly forced herself to smile, "I'm fine, thank you."

"You're not hurt, are you?"

She turned sharply to the director and back to man who was then standing just a foot in front of her, "No, I'm fine…what's wrong?"

"It's this," said the director while tabbing his finger on the cold metallic worktop underneath the body Molly had been examining. "Aberline brought this guest in yesterday evening after you left. He was found half a block away from your flat."

Cold chill ran down her spine as soon as she realized that this body, the body she just worked on, might have some kind of connection to her. She didn't know if she should be angry or not that the director did not inform her about this from the beginning. She felt she was tricked.

"So what's your finding?"asked Sebastian to the director who gestured to Molly.

"He's…he's Caucasian, male, no identification on his body," she said, trying her best to keep her voice steady, "probably in his thirties. He…has many scars and marks. Cause of death is internal bleeding due to several gunshots to his torso. "

"May I?" Sebastian asked with latex gloves on both his hands. He didn't even wait for a nod from the director to start looking at the hands.

"It was the surveillance team outside Ms. Hooper's flat who took him down," said the director with the tone he used when he asked if someone wanted a cookie. "The man was trying to break into the flat and got into a fight with police officers, almost killed two of them. They had to shoot him in the back alley. Well, at least that was what Aberline told me."

"I won't be surprise. He was an assassin," replied Sebastian after he finished with the hands, "He was climatized to violence and torture. Some of these scars even seem like they were intentionally inflicted. He definitely cannot be decent. Aberline wants a name, I presume."

"He wonders if you know him."

"Didn't he run the fingerprints on the database yet?"

"He's doing it," said the director as he shrugged, "But, you know, database only contained the name of the criminals known to the upper-world. Aberline suspects this guy might not show up."

"Assassins with these records of violence on his body might have records in the database as well; they are the type to get into trouble. And if you ask me, I cannot tell much if I don't know the signature of his killing."

"Unfortunately, we can't allow that," replied the director with a look toward Molly who, at this point, had been standing dreadfully still. "But you can tell something from his body, right Sebastian?"

The man sighed and replied, "Pro at strangling. His upper body, especially his shoulder arms and hands, are overly muscular and out of proportion with the rest of his body. Weapon of choice was probably a rope since there is chafing on the side of his palms. But a good pro would use gloves to ease the friction, so this guy's technique was pretty mediocre, probably self-taught."

"So probably not someone you know."

"And probably someone with a criminal record," added Sebastian as he took off the latex gloves and put on his usual black leather ones. It was then that Molly spotted a patch of faint scar on the back of his left hand. "In any case, we know who sent him."

There was a moment of dreadful silence as the director's grin widened gleefully and Molly shuddered, "So your problem child is back," he added with a snicker. "For a criminal mastermind, he surely had a bad taste for assassins."

"Ever since Golem," muttered Sebastian before he turned to Molly, "Ms. Hooper, I'm afraid you have to move again. I should be able to find a place for you by the afternoon. Will you mind if I move your belongings there before informing you of the address?"

"Not at all," replied Molly. At that point, she had no idea what to do except followed Sebastian's suggestion. "Do I have to change my work again?"

"No, fortunately," Sebastian replied with a smile, "this is the safest place I know."

The director basked in the praise rather unabashedly, but a moment later he simply reverted back to his usual maniac self. "If we're done here, I think we should let our guest rest. Ms. Hooper, you can take him back to his place now. And Sebastian," he interrupted as the man helped Molly moving the body back onto the trolley. "You know the price, don't you?"

The man nodded, "We'll definitely pay you, Director, just not now."

"I know. You boys are busy these days," he snickered, "Remember to tell him I do charge interest."

Sebastian sighed but nodded anyway.

* * *

><p>The game was on; Sally Donovan could feel it.<p>

She had been keeping her eyes on the movements in the department ever since the pool, but there was no lead to the serial bomber case and no lead to confirm her suspicion that Aberline had been assigned to it. The stillness was nerve-wrecking until yesterday when, finally, she started to feel the change.

The first obvious clue was Aberline himself. He was aggravated. He had a meeting with Commissioner Randall for an hour followed by a series of phone calls. Finally, when he seemed settled down a bit, he searched through the database for hours in the evening.

But she was not going to burst in and asked questions just like that. She had to be tactful. The next morning she spent a good hour observing Aberline. There was nothing much but him in front of the computer. He came in and went straight to his room not even stopping by the coffee room as usual. Busy, really busy. So she made him a cup of coffee and headed towards his desk with her own mug in her other hand.

Aberline startled a bit when she knocked, but tried to conceal it instantly with a sheepish grin. She smiled and handed him his cup. "Too busy for coffee are we?" she asked.

He laughed a little then took a sip. Sally sipped hers as well. His hesitation told her he could not say much or else Fred Aberline would have said it already. So she waited, not pushing. She'd have whatever Fred wanted to tell.

"Not showing up?" she asked again just to get the conversation going.

"Yeah," he replied, grunting a little, "A body was found with no ID. I'm running a search to see if anything would show up."

"That's a tough job," Sally muttered, sympathizing with him, "Not on the missing person? Maybe try broadening your criteria?"

"Tried a big search last night, nothing showed up," he sighed and stretched, "What about you, Sally? What are you up to these days?"

"Well, ever since the serial bomber, nothing much," she intentionally mentioned it to gauge his reaction and in a way showing that she was involved. She was hoping that this would loosen Abeline up a bit. "Some drug-dealer got shot; that is nothing new around here."

"There will be a nice murder to cheer you up, don't worry," Fred teased her with a broad smile.

She scowled instantly, "I'm not a freak."

"Oh no, you aren't. But you can be very lively when there's a murder to solve," he added, "Miss somebody?"

Oh, geez. That hit too close to home.

The small ding from the computer saved her from having to navigate out of this awkward topic. Aberline quickly swung back to his computer to see the result but huffed exasperatedly. Sally stole a glimpse of the criteria then feigned disinterest by turning away and sipping her cuppa. "No good?" she asked.

"Nope," he replied, "matched a print from a recent cold case, but nothing else." Then he sighed dramatically. "This man is supposed to be a serial offender; he ought to have a record. Why this?"

Suddenly, a stroke of genius struck Sergeant Donovan, and she immediately suggested it to Aberline, "Unless he was not from around here."

Fred's eyes widened instantly, "Oh my god, Sally, why didn't I think of that!" He immediately picked up the phone and dialed an overseas number. Sally took it as a queue to leave but lingered long enough to hear the first part of the conversation. "Hello, this is Detective Inspector Fred Aberline from Scotland Yard. We have an emergency case here. There's an assassin and a possible terrorist found dead here in London, but we cannot identify him. We would like to use the FBI database…"

Something was totally going on.

* * *

><p>"Dr. Watson!"<p>

John was caught totally off-guarded that he jumped despite himself. Usually, he was constantly alert thanked to his military training. But being as good as it was, it did not help John on a late evening when he just walked out of a long shift at the surgery and his brain had decided to go on autopilot.

Even so, his civility was still much intact even on autopilot. "Evening," replied John as he turned to meet the young man who just greeted him. Ciel looked tired himself with his backpack slung loosely on one shoulder. "Evening class?"

"Assignments, as usual," Ciel answered, "and yourself?"

"Evening shift," said John, "didn't fancy seeing you around here at this hour."

The boy smiled in return. "Me neither," he replied, "You're going home, I presume."

"Yes?" John answered cautiously with an obvious question mark as the young man walked forward and gently took his hand. John flinched, but Ciel took a tight hold of him and led them on.

After they walked a few steps, he muttered, "I think there is a van following you."

John immediate reaction was to look back, but the firm grip on his hand and his higher functioning brain told him to stay calm and look straight ahead. "What is it like?"

"White van, with a logo of a pastry shop. They may be trying to find the shop, but it seems to me that they are following you," murmured Ciel as they continued to walk to the direction of Baker Street.

"We need to find out then," murmured John, and the young man raised his brow in response. "I know a good Chinese place around here. A dinner before going home might be a good idea. Wanna join?"

Ciel replied to him with a tug at his arm and soon John found himself in his soldier mode fully alert of his surroundings. He stole a glimpse across his shoulder at one point to see the van, but he could not make out much of its detail besides its color and a vague impression of the logo. They continued walking together while John navigated quickly through the crowd and Ciel followed him stride by stride as if knowing John's next move. It was almost like a dance, a dangerous one, and John found himself surprisingly comfortable with the feeling of Ciel's hand against his own.

They turned away from his usual route at an intersection and sped up as soon as the van was out of sight. Trailing him or not, it was better to be cautious. John wanted to make sure absolutely no one was following him home. Being kidnapped once was enough.

After a while he decided to steal a glance, and chills ran down his spine instantly as he saw the white van turned the corner towards them.

"They are still following, aren't they?" Ciel asked. The young man didn't turn but took John's reaction as the answer. "Would be best to get home as soon as possible in this situation. I don't mind walking with you to your place. They might be intimidated if there are two of us."

John shot the young man a quick thank-you and Ciel smiled warmly in return. Then John was back thinking of how to outdo them on the way back to Baker Street. They were off track and might take a lot longer.

As if reading his thoughts, Ciel suggested, "The best way to get rid of them might be going through Regent's Park. The van won't be able to follow us in there."

That was actually a brilliant idea and John's grip was a strong affirmative. At the next intersection, they quickly took the route as planned. The van seemed to be tailing a bit further behind as if unsure of the situation. John could't help feeling a bit triumphant. This might actually work.

He turned around and accidentally walked into an old lady who bounced backward and threatened to fall if not for John grabbing her. He asked if she was alright but at that very instant the lady sprayed something into his face. He could feel Ciel's grip on his shoulder as the boy tried to pull him away and he heard another spray.

Then all turned to darkness.

* * *

><p>TBC.<p>

**Author Note:** Cliffhanger, cliffhanger. I need to put a cliffhanger here. Sorry 'bout that. I'll try to finish up the next couple of chapters as soon as possible.

It's been rather stressful trying to write Sebastian without turning him into Sherlock, because they were supposed to be similar. (Check the Manor Murder Arc in Black Butler comic, and you'll see how much they resemble each other.) I was also debating on how should Sebastian talk. His Victorian-self is ridiculously charming with all those proses he loves to throw about, but it just seems strange to have a guy talking like that right now. I try to make him a smooth talker. Don't know if that succeed.

And the Director, the weird bloke, I feel sorry for Molly to have to work with him. But he's at least this weird in Black Butler so I don't wanna change anything. For Black-Butler fans, you probably know since the first few lines of description that he is our beloved Undertaker. It's such a shame that we never got to know his name so we have to go by the Director for the rest of the story. I decided to call him Director instead of Undertaker because mortuary director seems to be the perfect counterpart of what he does in the original story. In that way he can remain the overseeing presence of the world of the dead as he is in the original.


	5. Chapter 5: The Game is On!

**Author Note:** You all might notice that I took SH/JW out of the summary. Not that it's not going to be there any more, I'm just reconsidering how explicit I want it to be and I come to the conclusion that I should let it evolve on its own rather than trying to push the pair. You'll need to squint a little for now. :)

Okay, now let's see what happens to John.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Part 5: The Game is On!<br>**

The clock ticked seven when DI Lestrade finally put down his paper work. It was a long day, a long boring day, of nothing much but mundane cases of drug-dealer being stabbed or a guy mugged in a back street. His day-time had been only partially productive with Sherlock harassing him almost every other day. Sherlock was truly a child when it came to waiting; he just couldn't sit still, not even when there was nothing tempting him to move from his sofa.

It was likely because there was nothing at all for the past month: no case and no Moriarty. Sherlock had been obsessed with the man even when everyone around him seemed to have gone back to their normal lives. It might have been ignorant actually. Deep down he knew Moriarty could very well start the game again anytime, a fact Sherlock never forgot.

He was turning off his computer and packing up his things when he heard a faint chime coming from the top drawer of his desk, the place he kept many things except his mobile phone. The chime was from another phone he had kept there, always fully charged, for over an entire month with the hope that it would never ring again.

Tonight it did, and his blood ran cold instantly. He pulled the drawer open almost too slowly, every second praying that he was just hearing things and that he could still ignore the very fact sticking up from under his nose that the game had not yet ended.

And on the screen of the pink phone was a single line saying that 'the game is on'.

* * *

><p>Getting a phone call late in the evening was not something profoundly new for Sebastian Michaelis; he had anticipated this particular call for some time now. That was why his mobile phone was placed conveniently on the console between the two front seats of his car with his Bluetooth set nearby. He reached for the set and put it on while his other hand held on to the wheel as he navigated through the busy street of London.<p>

"Sebastian's speaking," was all he said before his lips pursed in to a grin, "I'll be there right away."

* * *

><p>Sergeant Donovan arrived twenty minutes after she got the call from Lestrade looking exactly like when she had left except she was gasping, but she didn't stop to catch a breath. Didn't have time anymore, not with that message.<p>

She threw all her things on her desk and walked into Lestrade's office. "So?" she asked, only sparing a glance at Sherlock's tall figure at one side of the desk. There was restlessness in the air. Something had happened; something's wrong.

"Where's John?" she asked immediately when she realized the doctor was not in the room with the Freak as he normally would, especially at this hour. She looked at Sherlock, but the detective only grimace. That was enough for her to know that something was utterly wrong; the Freak was glaring even. She turned to Lestrade for an answer, but instead the DI went on with his business.

"Moriarty has planted a bomb in a pub somewhere in London that would go off at midnight unless we can find where it is," Lestrade told her, "He has given us a clue."

"What's the clue then," she asked. Dear lord, the Freak was too quite he was really freaking her out.

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock before he proceeded, "Before I tell anything to you two, I would have Sherlock promises me that he would not go off on his own under any circumstances EVEN if John's life is at stake."

Sally turned sharply toward Sherlock to see him flinched at those words. So that was what the glare was; the Freak was distressed because John was again kidnapped and became a part of the game. For the first time, Sergeant Donovan noticed, Sherlock was not enjoying any aspect of this game at all.

"Would you promise me that, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked again, and Sherlock's breath caught. He was frustrated beyond belief that he had to, at least this once, play the game the Lestrade's way, a way too slow for his brilliant brain to not twitch in agony. But he knew he had no choice, for this once at least, because Moriarty was too dangerous for him alone.

"I agree," Sherlock replied at last, "but do try to keep up."

Lestrade sighed in relief. He had expected the worst, it seemed. "I can promise the trying part. Now, here is the message."

They flocked to the phone as Lestrade opened a video, apparently shot with a webcam. The quality was low, but just enough for them to make out a face of a woman sobbing but not the tears that could have been on her face. She was not strapped to any bomb, but she was grimacing nonetheless.

"Hi, Sherlock…" she said between ragged sobs and breaths. Again, the quality of the audio was not that high, but they could tell that she had a rather coarse voice. She looked tired and disturbed, but she continued. "How are you…baby? Surprised that I am alive?"

Sally grimaced as she watched the woman choking on her words. Still, she continued, "I'm… disappointed… that you don't like… the ending to my game…Let's play another one. This bitch… has the clue. Find her and you'll know where… the next boom-boom will be." She wiped her face, confirming the unseen tears then said, "You'll have till midnight or people… will go up…in smoke and flame… They might not mind though… since they'll die drunk and dancing…"

The message seemed to end there as she muttered 'I'm sorry' over and over and end the recording. Sally only stared in disbelief at now black screen. "She could be anybody," she said, "We only have a little short of four hours. How could-"

"I know her," muttered Sherlock who had been standing eerily quiet. His breath was hitching now. He looked torn and frustrated, "We go to the same uni. I used to buy stuffs from her."

"You mean drugs," Sally corrected and Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.

"Fine, yes, drugs, if that makes you happy," he snapped at her out of irritation and not even trying to hide it under his usual sarcasm anymore.

"Happy?," she retorted with a snort, "I don't even know what that Moriarty has done to her. She isn't tied up with Semtex or anything, but she's already a wreck."

"Withdrawal."

Sherlock replied was so simple she had to look at him again. Of course, that woman was a junkie. It would not take much to persuade an addict to do whatever you want.

"What's her name?" asked Lestrade very matter-of-factly, and Sally took the queue to drop the subject.

The reply from Sherlock was immediate, "Jane Jenkins. The last I heard from her, she was in Sutton, but she's clearly in around Central London at the moment."

"You don't have her contact?"

"Of course not," scowled Sherlock, "I'm clean."

"Well, thought you might still have it," replied the DI with a shrug, but Sherlock simply sighed and Lestrade took that as a no. "Well then, this could be as hard as finding a random girl."

"But we have the name. She might show up on the database," Sally suggested which earned her a you-imbecile look from Sherlock, but that did not stop Sally. Since when did she need the Freak's approval anyway? Sergeant Donovan turned to Lestrade, "I'll check her out," and she took his silence as a dismissal.

Sherlock hissed as she walked back to her desk to start the search. "That would take forever," Sherlock told him when he knew there was no way Sally would listen. The detective pulled out his phone and started typing away.

"Well, what do you suggest?" asked Lestrade.

For a moment Sherlock was silence, apparently looking up something on the phone before answering, "While not everyone would be on the police's database, pretty much everyone is on a social-network."

"So you're going to search Facebook?"

The DI earned a disapproving humph. He didn't miss the sarcastic comment that followed, "Yes, that might be helpful, but, no, we are looking for a place she might be in. Facebook won't tell you that, but there are other social-networking sites that allow you to publish where you are. Quite useless in most cases, but not for this one."

"How?"

Again Sherlock sighed. He was getting fed up with this really fast, "Do I really have to guide you through every step, detective inspector. I thought you got your job because of something. She is a drug-dealer, Greg, and she's doing rather well judging by her flat and its location even though she is clearly single. She's a college drop-off and an addict - been doing drug since her first year, not a good reputation - so she probably doesn't have a job that pays too well. Therefore, her regular incomes that top it up is from selling drugs. She did that in school and a couple of years after she dropped out. But she is too old now to hang out with college students and not being suspicious, so where else can she sells drugs regularly. Pubs and nightclubs, of course."

It was then that Sherlock smirked as his eyes spotted something on the screen. "Well, that's not as many as I expected." Lestrade leaned forward to see what was on the screen. It was the profile of Jane Jenkins on a social network site with lists of places she had been in. It was all he could see when Sherlock started walking towards the door. "We'll start with her regular top five. Ask them about Jane. Someone in there might know where she lives."

That was when Lestrade stopped him, "Sherlock, you do realize that I am a police officer, don't you?"

The man turned and glared, "Then go undercover!"

* * *

><p>It actually took them less than an hour and a half to find someone they could talk to. A bartender at one of the pubs was actually her ex-boyfriend who was more than happy to tell them where she was as soon as Sherlock announced that he was Jane's friend who had come clean.<p>

"I was never happy about her lifestyle," he said. Something similar to guilt was written on his face. "I do it sometimes too, you know, but I'm not like her. She totally cannot function without it. I thought I could change her."

Lestrade could tell that Sherlock was not in the mood to listen to all the melodrama albeit he had played a concerned old friend wanting to get in touch and did so convincingly. The DI had no idea how he could have done so, but that might as well fall apart if they stayed any longer. "Sorry about that mate," he said and gave the man a pat on the shoulder. "I hope Sherlock can persuade her otherwise. And thanks a mil for her address. We'll check on her for you."

The man gave them a nod and a smile as Sherlock went to pay for the drink he hadn't actually touched and dragged Lestrade out of the place. "The phone," he demanded under his breath and Lestrade took it out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Sherlock who sighed dramatically before entering the address into the map application. "I really don't understand why you have to make it so inconvenient. If you just let me have the-"

"Because you'll run off on your own as soon as you have it," replied Lestrade as they got into the taxi. The DI grabbed the phone back from Sherlock and directed the driver to the location. It would be just a few minutes drive at this hour. He checked his watch again. At this point he had no idea if they would make it on time. Moriarty sure had up his game by a lot.

But Lestrade knew it was not so much of a challenge to Sherlock. This was not a case for him to solve, not much information gathering needed to be done. He was slowed down because the Yard functioned at a much slower pace. Maybe this was it. Moriarty might be tempting Sherlock to go off on his own again.

He jolted as the phone in his trousers pocket rang. His first thought was Moriarty, but that was in his hand and this was HIS phone. He willed himself to relax and picked it up, "Yes, Sally. What is it?" he paused, "What!"

"What is it?" asked Sherlock rather sharply, but Lestrade shushed him.

"Alright, Sally. We'll find Jane and meet you back there," he hung up and said, "The bomb went off. No casualties. The pub happened to be closed today."

The consulting detective furrowed his brows in confusion. Lestrade couldn't believe it as well. They were still well before midnight, and the madman had not contact them if they had done anything to displease him.

"Something's not right," Sherlock muttered.

* * *

><p>The commotion from outside the room woke John up. It took him some time to realize that it was not Sherlock doing an experiment that end up in a disaster and he was not in his bedroom sleeping. He was on a sofa and in an empty room with no light. John could barely make out the pattern of the wallpaper in front of him with the dim glow from a crack in the window. The heavy chain pulling his left wrist reminded him that he had been kidnapped, again.<p>

He was not strapped with Semtex, though, which could be both good and bad news. Either he wouldn't be strapped with it yet, or the game had changed. John sighed in frustration as he got up and examine the cuff around his wrist. It's definitely custom-made as it was connected to a ridiculously long chain which disappeared under the sofa. He was able to move around quite a lot in this arrangement with one hand free, but, of course, could not get away from the hideous couch he was sitting on. He tried pulling on the chain a bit and realized something strange: the other end of the chain was not connected to anything solid.

John shook the chain violently and listened to where it might have gone. The jingle seemed to come up on the other end of the sofa, the end in which another body had been lying sound asleep. The shaking stirred the person up and John was able to make out the feature of a slender young man resting against the armrest. He instantly remembered the second spray. It was Ciel Phantomhive.

Suddenly, the young man bolted away until he was trapped in the corner. His hand darted about trying to find something John had no idea about. His eyes seemed to be fixed at John for a long moment but did not see him as if he was still trapped in a frightful nightmare. Although John could not see his face, he recognized the defensive posture he saw many times in war victims in Afghanistan. It seemed that he had been wrong about Ciel; the wound never actually healed.

"It's me," the doctor muttered without moving from his place. Stillness and distance were usually the best in such a case. It could end up really badly for both parties if he tried to get any closer right now.

There was a moment of dreadful silence before Ciel finally relaxed. "Dr. Watson?"

Somehow, that recognition made John smiled, "You all right?"

"Yes, quite," replied the young man as he sat upright and composed, "You?"

"Aside from being chained I'm rather fine." John didn't know why he smiled. None of them could see each other's face in the darkness of the room, but he did anyway. "We are chained together it seems," said the doctor.

The young man looked at his wrist and shook it a bit. The sound moving under the couch towards John confirmed the hypothesis. "Clever," Ciel muttered sarcastically as he bended over and peered under the couch, "So if we can flip this sofa, we'll be free. And this length of chain can even be used as a weapon, too. You would think a kidnapper would be more careful about this, wouldn't you?" The boy flopped to the floor at once and John stood up immediately. He doubted that it would work, but it never hurt to try.

It turned out pretty much as he expected; the sofa was attached to the floor and there was no way to get the chain out from between the sofa legs. They had no tool within the room to even start thinking of destroying the wooden board or the chain. They were pretty much stuck. "I thought so. Moriarty can't be that stupid," John muttered after his third attempt at lifting the thing and flumped back onto the sofa. Ciel followed suit with a sighed and buried his face in his palms. The formidable silence only enhanced the ragged breath from the young man despite him trying to keep it steady. "You all right?" the doctor asked again.

"Fine," Ciel replied but his voice was somewhat shaken, "I'm just… not good at being kidnapped."

"Neither of us is," said the doctor and the young man let out a giggle. The tension in the room seemed to ease a bit and John decided to strike up a conversation, "I looked you up on the internet the other day."

The doctor was glad that the boy did not tense up, but the disdain in his voice was unmistakable, "So you know about me. Is that why you are worried?"

"No, it's because I want to make sure you are alright."

There was a paused as the boy simply gazed at him in the dark. John couldn't see the young man's face, so he had no way to gauge what he was thinking. He could only sit there and anticipate in nervous silence until, at last, Ciel spoke, "Is it pity, doctor?"

"No," John shook his head, "I can assure you, no."

"Good," the boy replied softly, "because pity helps no one."

For a moment, the air around them became unbelievably heavy to the point that John thought he wouldn't be able to breathe. It was sadness, unimaginable amount of sadness, which suddenly swarmed the room and its inhabitants. John suddenly had the urge to fill in the silence just because he could not stand being in this sadness any longer, "You can call me John."

Ciel turned towards him immediately. For a moment, he seemed unsure like he didn't know what to reply. At last, he spoke, "I'm also Ciel to you."

Even though it was nothing much, a step that with someone else would have been just an ordinary step in becoming friends, John knew it was a big step for someone as hurt as the young man. Trust issue, the same thing his therapist labeled on him.

"May I ask how you got your name?" John asked, trying to keep the conversation going. He hoped that at least it would help distract Ciel from whatever dark thoughts were lingering in the back of his mind.

"It's unusual, isn't it?" the boy replied, "It was from my mother. She had a French tutor when she was little and was very fascinated by the language ever since. My aunt, her sister, told me that she wanted me to be Ciel – the sky- ever since she saw that my eyes are blue, and my father was too amused by the idea to oppose her." The longing in the boy's voice was almost heartbreaking for John as the young man seemed to sink back in time, remembering the little things with fondness. But it was just for a small while before he asked, "You mentioned Moriarty. Is that the name of our kidnapper?"

Now it's John whose heart sank. A part of him didn't want to think about it, not when there was a person in front of him he was worried about. But that might as well be denial on his part. "Yes," he replied.

"Is he also the bomber?"

Again, John's reply was "yes."

He could feel Ciel tensed. The young man's voice cracked, "then there has to be a bomb somewhere, isn't it?"

The realization struck John at that moment. Of course, there must be a bomb - wasn't it the man's way of having fun - if not on them, then probably on someone else. It was not just their lives that were threatened this time.

It was in that silence that they also realized something utterly wrong with the place; it was quiet. There was enough noise to wake him up merely half an hour ago, now it was just quietness that unnerved even the soldier in John. Something must have happened, or was going to happen, and knowing the lunatic who was Moriarty did not help him guess one tit bit. Instantly, John started looking around whether they had any option in escaping at all. That was pretty much the only choice he had left. He had no way of knowing what Moriarty might do to Ciel.

Then amid that quietness, he heard soft footsteps approaching the door. He grabbed Ciel's hand instantly and squeezed it in assurance although he doubted their situation was very assuring. He had no idea what was to come next, but he was resolute in keeping the young man safe at all cost.

The door swung open and a tall figure in long trench coat stepped into the room. Most of his features were masked by darkness, but not the elegance in his movement. He was not Moriarty, that John was sure of that just by the height, but that was actually worst than seeing the madman himself since he knew negotiation wouldn't work with any of Moriarty's agent.

Suddenly, the man stopped. John could hear a chuckle before the man spoke, "My, you really have a talent at getting kidnapped, don't you?"

Ciel immediately released his hand, and John heard the boy groaned, "You are late," with all the resentment in him.

"Now, finding this place is not easy, you know," the man replied with clear amusement. He walked to the window and opened the unusually thick blind to let the street light in. John was able to clearly see the man now as he removed the cuff off the young man's wrist. He was tall, lean, rather pale, and very good at lock-picking. He was able to free Ciel in matter of minutes before he came over to remove John's cuff. The doctor tensed up a bit when the man touched his hand, but fought against pulling it away.

He pulled back when his hand was free again but not without a thank you. The tension would have gone up if Ciel didn't introduce them. "John, this is my colleague, Sebastian Michealis. Sebastian, Dr. John Watson."

The man smirked a little as Ciel stressed the word colleague, "After ten years, I thought you would at least call me your flatmate," he muttered, and the young man rolled his eyes which earned a wide smirk in return. "Anyway, the house is practically empty right now, but we have to move fast. There's no telling when they'll come back," he said as he led them out of the room in to an empty common area, except for three guards lying unconscious on the floor. Sebastian took one of their guns, put in a cartridge he kept in his coat, and handed it to John who eyed him warily. "Do you know how to use this?" he asked.

John nodded and took it, "What about you?"

"I have my weapon of choice," the man replied as he led them quietly down the stairs. To John's surprise, there was no one, as if the captors had decided to disappear. They were out on the street before John could even say _clear_ and he could hear Ciel sighed in relief as they moved in the shadow of the trees towards the main road.

"What happen to them?" John asked cautiously. "I'm sure there were more than three of them before."

"Gone," answered Sebastian, "A bomb went off barely half an hour ago. Most of them left this place as soon as they got the news. I don't know if they were going to do something about it, or they'd just ran away."

"Wait, you've been here all this time, but you didn't come in and get us?" Ciel interrupted.

"There were at least ten of them in the house, Ciel," replied the man with a smile, "I won't be able to reach you in that case, so I waited for an opportunity. And our escape mission turned out nicely, don't you think?"

The young man sighed grudgingly although he made no further turned the corner to the main road where a taxi was waiting for them, to Ciel's surprise. "You didn't bring your car?" he asked.

"They might be able to track us down that way," replied Sebastain as he knocked on the window. The cabbie woke up immediately and let them in. Sebastian opened the door and gestured for John to get in. "By the way, are you hurt anywhere, doctor? Do you want to go to a hospital first?"

"No, I think we're fine," said John as he made himself comfortable at one end of the seat while Ciel sat in the middle, followed by Sebastian who instructed the cabbie to just drive to central London. "Where are we?" John asked.

"Croydon," Sebastian replied, "And your address?"

"221B Baker Street," he paused, "No. Make it New Scotland Yard. I'm pretty sure my flatmate had gone to the police by now."

"Good for him," muttered Sebastian. John had never known that satire could sound so smooth. Then again, everything about Sebastian seemed smooth, elegant, perfect. Even this rescue mission was so well executed not a trace of them could have been found.

John couldn't help asking, "Ciel mentioned that you two are colleagues, but what do you do, actually?"

"I'm simply an assistant," replied Sebastian with a small smile, "Ciel needs some help running his little business since he'd gotten into college. The work load has been quite merciless."

"Business?"

"Game consulting," the man replied, "He has been doing that since he was a child. His father used to own a little game company. He has quite a talent in seeing what makes a game work and what not. So his uncle encouraged him to take that to a business level. It's good money and distraction."

"And you've been with him from the start, like for ten years?"

"Not for work. Not that long," Sebastian replied, "That is how long we have known each other. You can say I'm his babysitter. He does like to throw tantrums after all."

But there was no tantrum now, and John realized that Ciel had actually fallen asleep resting against Sebastian's shoulder.

The man sighed and shook his head, "He amazes me sometimes."

"I can see that," John replied as he eyed the sleeping boy. When did they get in the cab again? "Does that mean you're working for him now?"

"Yes," the man replied with a chuckle, "I know it's quite unusual to be employed by a person his age, but that's how it goes. What about you, Dr. Watson? I've read a couple of posts on your blog that Ciel showed me, but what do you actually do?"

John didn't know why being watched by Sebastian made him nervous. Maybe it was the calculating eyes that seemed to be assessing him from behind the friendly mannerism. He swallowed and answered, "I'm a doctor and I help my flatmate solve crimes."

"Sherlock Holmes, you mean. Is he a private detective?"

"A consulting detective, actually. He invented the job."

"A detective still. Isn't that dangerous?"

John couldn't really help smiling, "Yes, but that's the best part of it."

Anyone else would have scowled by now, but strangely Sebastian smiled despite his concern. It was as if the man was able to see John's craving for adrenaline, the need to put himself in the line of fire and felt his senses sharpened by the danger, the lovely feeling of the blood pumping through his veins, and the feeling of just being alive.

"Some people are born to be with danger, doctor," the man said. His smile did not fade. "It may be deemed unconventional by the majority, but, to be honest, it is because the majority is governed by cowardice. I'm glad you understand that calling in you and did not shy from it. I can see now why Ciel admires you so much."

John simply stared dumbfounded at the man for a good couple of seconds not knowing actually what to say. He was just praised - deeply, truly, sincerely praised - by a man he just met for the recklessness that had driven him thus far, the recklessness very few recognized. He had always been the timid John, the ordinary John even to himself...

…until he met Sherlock Holmes.

That reminded him that he should give his flatmate a call. He reached into his pocket and cursed quietly as he realized that his mobile phone was taken, again. He was less than pleased to have to get a new one in less than two months, but moreover was his frustration that he could not at least tell Sherlock he was safe. He had no idea what his madman of a flatmate would be doing right now.

John stole a glance at Sebastian while contemplating whether he should borrow his phone. They were heading to Scotland Yard anyway, so it would be a matter of thirty minutes difference, but thirty minutes could make a lot of difference. He didn't know if he should wait.

He was lost in his own thoughts when a mobile phone was handed to him. "Here, if you need it," said Sebastian without even looking at John. Most of the time, he was staring out the window or, if he turned this way at all, to Ciel who was still sleeping soundly. John had no idea what the man saw on his expression that led to him offering John the phone, but John took it with a thanks and dialed Sherlock's number out of memory.

A couple of rings passed before the familiar voice on the other end of the line came through, "Hello."

Somehow, the deep smooth voice made John stumble, "Sherlock?"

"John?" his pitch changed instantly although Sherlock was still keeping it down, "Where are you? Are you alright?"

"I'm on a cab heading for Scotland Yard. And I'm fine, thanks."

Sherlock was about to say something when he was cut off by another man, probably Lestrade. John couldn't make out what he was saying but he heard Sherlock groaned. "Okay, John. We'll meet at the Yard. You've eaten?"

"No. Why?"

"Never mind. They have some snacks. See you, John."

Before John could answer, the phone was cut off, and he found himself somewhat disappointed by the lack of concern from Sherlock. He was his bloody flatmate for goodness sake! But what reaction did he expect anyway. This was Sherlock Holmes after all.

He handed the phone back to Sebastian who quietly put it back into his pocket before letting his hand fell back to his knee and curled loosely against Ciel's. John couldn't help noticing how the man's gloved hand seemed to protectively engulf the young man's, and how Sebastian would shift to let Ciel leaned a bit more comfortably against him.

Before John was able to form any hypothesis, the taxi came to a stop and outside the window was the New Scotland Yard.

* * *

><p>TBC.<p>

**Author Note:** The bit about tracking people's movement with a social-networking site IS real. I came across a blog post showing the method using a mobile app while I was planning for this chapter. It freaked the hell out of me when I tried it on a friend whom I know was very active on a website for a time using my laptop, and it worked! (Oh, yes, I'm a privacy freak.) I didn't even have to register for an account or friended anybody! It was like, snap, I knew where she regularly hang out instantly.

Good thing is most people aren't active on those kind of website, yet. If you are, please make sure you have configured the site to show just as much as you want it to. If you have already done so, good for you.

This is a message from your privacy-freak friend. See you next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6: Machinated Secrecy

**Author's Note: **My apology to those who have been waiting; it has been over two months, I realized. I am trying to get the next part of the story going, but it's going so, so slow.

Anyway, please enjoy.:)

**Special Thanks **to the lovely CrazyCousinEiko who beta-read this chapter for me. XD It couldn't have been better.

* * *

><p><strong>Part 6: Machinated Secrecy <strong>

John was reaching for his wallet, one thing his captors didn't bother to take, when Sebastian stopped him. "I'll take care of that. Don't worry," said the man. His smile rendered John speechless and he accepted the offer rather easily.

"And by the way, if I may ask for a favour, can you please refrain from mentioning us to the police? I am not fond of the idea of having Ciel involved in this."

John pondered over the request. It was unusual, but he could see the reason. He looked at the sleeping figure again and eventually nodded.

"I can do that much."

"Thank you," the man replied with an appreciative nod; "and good night, Dr. Watson."

John slid out of the car and started towards the Yard as the taxi drove off and away into the night. To where? John had no idea. He realized then how little he knew about the young man – only a fraction of his childhood. Nothing of his person, really, aside from what they exchanged in their pleasantries. He started to understand then why Ciel harboured an obvious disdain towards his past and not just because of the sheer terror of it. It might be that he hated how it had defined him. His unique name did not help to conceal it. People would always recognize him as Ciel Phantomhive the boy who survived two horrific murders.

John could understand that. He had been at the point where the people he knew would give him a reassuring yet sympathetic look every time even the slightest mention about war came up. It was hard with those constant reminders to move on and just forget the pain. In a way, he and Ciel were in the same position. The difference was he did not have anything that tagged him as an invalid soldier from Afghanistan for everyone to see.

"John!"

John nearly jumped at the call. He barely had a chance to see who it was before he found himself pinned to the glass corridor in front of the New Scotland Yard. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that it was Sherlock Holmes hovering over him with an unfamiliar expression on his face.

"You're alright," the detective said, deadpanned. It was not a question. It was strange, though, for Sherlock to be stating the obvious. John already told him he was alright, so why was Sherlock looking a bit…frightened?

"I'm fine," John replied, confused. "Bit tired, but… yeah, I'm fine."

"Where were you? What has he done to you?"

"Moriarty?"

"You didn't come home on time and Lestrade phoned me that he received a message on the pink phone. My only conclusion was that he got you. He took it from where he left off. But if it's Moriarty, how could you-"

"A bomb went off unexpectedly, and the kidnappers just… disappeared. I could have walked out the front door for all I know."

There was a pause, and John soon found himself in a staring contest with Sherlock.

"You haven't met him," the detective concluded.

"No, I haven't," confirmed John. "I don't imagine I would be able to walk away like this if I had."

Sherlock didn't nod, but his silence was more than an affirmation to John. He slowly let John go and gestured him inside. "Lestrade's waiting," he said before taking off, leaving John to catch up like always.

They were in Lestrade's office in matter of minutes, and John felt more welcomed than usual with Sally handing him a mug of warm tea and a plate of biscuits. He, however, did not miss the resentment she sent Sherlock's way as the detective allowed himself onto a chair beside John. Lestrade also had his own cup of tea and biscuits, but he was more focused on John at the moment.

"Okay, can you tell me what happened?" he asked. It sounded like a professional inquisition, but it was more of Lestrade's own curiosity than anything else.

"I was on my way home from the surgery in West End when I noticed a van following me," John began; "I wasn't sure at first because it was a simple white van with a logo of a pastry shop on it, so, just to be safe, I took a detour to Regent Park. But before I ever got there, an old lady pretended to bump into me and she sprayed something in my face. Next thing I knew I was in an empty house in Croydon. They locked me in a room on the second floor. I could barely see anything at first, but there were lot of noises from outside. Many people, I don't know how many because after a while it went silent. Seems like they heard about the bomb going off unexpectedly, and they fled… or something. I don't really know. By the time I got myself out of the room, the house was barely occupied save for three guards whom I knocked down. I ran outside, took the first cab that passed by, and came here."

John could hardly believe how easy it was to tell it this way, not having to mention a word of Ciel or Sebastian. It felt so natural that John was terrified of himself for a good few minutes. It wasn't actually lying, but it was as bad as doing so. Lestrade was taken in as John expected. It was Sherlock who pointed out a hole in his story.

"How did you get out of your cuff?"

They both stared back at him. "Cuff?" asked Lestrade.

"There's a red line around your left wrist suggesting that you were constrained. Since it's just on one wrist, you were definitely tied to something that would keep you in place. You can't walk around being cuff like that. How did you get out then?"

"I know lock-picking," said John. He was telling the truth. He did learn the basics some years ago in case it might come in handy. It never did, actually. But Sherlock's eyes still narrowed on him. The detective was not buying it, not in full. Trust Sherlock to ruin his attempt at omitting detail.

"And I got you this," the doctor turned to the DI and placed the gun on his desk, "I took it from one of the guards in the house. Thought it might be useful."

"It sure will," the DI replied. He pulled out a latex glove and an evidence bag and put the gun inside. "Do you know where specifically you were held?"

"No idea," said John, "It was dark out. I was only thinking of getting here as fast as I could."

Lestrade nodded. A smile crept onto his face as he said, "I'm glad you're safe."

John muttered a thank you, when Sherlock sighed- obviously unimpressed with something- and Sally walked in.

"We can talk to Ms. Jenkins now if you want to."

"Yes, of course," replied Lestrade as he got up, "You can go home and rest now, John. Finish your tea if you like."

"Well, thanks," said John. The DI gave him a nod as he went out after Sally to another room down the hall. At that point John couldn't care less who was Ms. Jenkins. He just wanted to fuel and head home.

Of course, he was too optimistic to think that Sherlock would not notice. "Why did you lie?" asked the detective.

The doctor almost choked on his tea. "I didn't lie!"

"But you intentionally avoided mentioning that there was another person with you, am I right?"

John didn't know how Sherlock figured that out but trusted Sherlock to do it anytime. And John knew that, unlike with Lestrade, he could not keep this from his flatmate for long.

"Alright, yes, there was another person with me. He warned me about the van and ended up getting caught in it, too."

"Why didn't you mention him?"

"Because it won't help anything. There's nothing he knows that I don't know."

"You avoid saying his name."

The doctor paused for a good few seconds. "Is that a question?"

"It's a fact. You mentioned there were guards, three of them; you couldn't possibly knock them out without a fair bit of fight, but there isn't a sign of compulsion on you. So, you didn't have to struggle. How so? You had someone to help you, possibly another captive. He warned you of the van, so obviously someone you know, but you are reluctant to get him involved. My question, John, is why?"

John sat there stunned and staring at his flatmate for a moment, a moment that was usually longer than Sherlock could bear, but he bore it surprisingly well this time. He was determined to know, John realized, so determined that he might be willing to continue this staring contest all night if need be to make John talk.

So talk John must. "Ciel Phantomhive."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"But please, Sherlock, don't tell Lestrade about him. That boy- I mean, the chap had a rough time with this kind of thing before. I really don't want him to relive it again, not the kidnapping, and not with the police. I know as much as he knows, so there really isn't any need."

"You know that withholding information from an officer of the law can get you into trouble," said Sherlock, holding John's gaze thoughtfully.

"Of course, I know," replied John.

"I might tell Lestrade."

"No, you won't." The confidence John showed must have been immense because Sherlock was taken aback. A moment of silence went by as John nipped at the biscuit and Sherlock simply stared at him.

That moment ended when the door of office swung open, and a woman came stumbling in. John, as a doctor, was shocked by how pale and disarrayed she looked, and how she launched on Sherlock as soon as she saw him.

"I'm sorry, Sherly. I'm so sorry," she muttered between sobs as soon as she locked her arms around his neck and basically occupied his lap.

Sherlock himself did not know how to react either. He seemed annoyed, but tried his best to hide it, which was odd for John knowing that his flatmate had no restrain in showing his disdain whatsoever. He patted the woman's shoulder before pushing her gently away.

"It's alright, Jane," he said with a failed attempt at smiling. It looked like a sneer, which scared the woman, Jane. Even so, he carried on. "You just need to tell the police everything you know about the man that gave you the clue. Everything. And it'll be fine."

"Oh, as if the police can do anything," she muttered under her breaths, "No one has been able to touch him. He's after you, Sherly. When I first met him I thought he was your friend. He knew so much about you. So I told him what I knew about you back in uni. I didn't know he was going to turn it into… this." She waved around and Sherlock nodded.

"What do you know about him?"

"His name, mostly. I buy things from a dealer who knows him. Such a generous guy, but we never met. We just leave each other messages on websites, and we chat on Skype and the like. Yesterday, the dealer came to me with his people and told me that Jim wanted my help setting up a game for his friend. I just thought it's going to be fun, so I agreed. I didn't know. God. I tried to back out, but they…they hold me in my flat and…"

"…made you participate anyway," finished Sherlock with much disinterest. "So you know next to nothing about him."

Jane looked like she was about to cry. "I'm so sorry, Sherly," she said with a sob. The detective simply sighed and pushed her a bit forcefully off him. Jane didn't resist, although she looked rather hurt.

"If you are sorry, tell me one thing," Sherlock paused. "Why do you do Heroin?"

Jane's lips quivered in the brief moment Sherlock locked his piercing blue eyes with hers. She was about to burst into tears when Sherlock turned away and headed for the door.

"Let's go, John," he muttered under his breath and the doctor followed him with a nod of sympathy towards Jane.

If Sherlock was walking fast on the way in, he was striding even faster on the way out. John had to run at one point to catch up with him. He can tell that Sherlock was upset, very upset, not because Jane Jenkins can give them no leads to Moriarty, but because…

"Heroin?"

"You saw that, don't you? Heroin withdrawal. It would have been less obvious and less devastating if it had been other opiates."

"No, what I'm asking is why are you so upset over her using Heroin?"

"I'm not upset."

"Come on, Sherlock, that's not convincing."

They came to a stop as the pavement as the detective darted his eyes looking for a cab. Few minutes passed and John knew he would never have the answer because Sherlock would never admit of being upset about such a trivial matter as one of the people in his drug circle using Heroin. Come to think of it, all John knew about his flatmate unflattering side was that once Sherlock was an addict. To what was something he never asked because it seemed irrelevant to their friendship. Sherlock was clean now – well, maybe except for the nicotine – and John never found an occasion to bring it up. But it would be awkward to strike up a conversation like that public even with his relentless curiosity, so John waited until they were again in the privacy of their flat. Sherlock landed on the sofa, peeled off two patches from his left arm, and slapped new ones on.

John's eyes grew twice the size. "Sherlock, what are you- "

"I've used three patches before, John. This is nothing new."

"I know, but you didn't use as much the last time," John paused, "Is the problem much harder?"

"Not actually," replied Sherlock as he lied down on the couch, "Now, I have to think of what he intends to do. You should take a shower and get some sleep, John. Good night."

John just stood there as Sherlock rolled over facing the back of the couch and completely dismissed him. The doctor then dropped his intention for a friendly chat, bade his flatmate goodnight, and climbed the stairs to his room.

* * *

><p>The next morning was like any other morning. John woke up at his usual time and padded down stairs in his pajamas and slippers through the haze in his head for a wake-up cuppa. That morning, however, John found Sherlock with the kettle already boiling the water for the morning tea. In front of him were two mugs with tea bags waiting for the kettle to whistle.<p>

John stood in the doorway for a good few seconds just blinking. Sherlock was already fully dressed with fresh clothes. The detective turned to him as soon as he finished pouring the water into the mug. John spied a grin twitch the corner of his flatmate's lips.

"Good morning, John."

"Morning," replied the doctor as he took the mug from his flatmate and sat down at the kitchen table. "You made tea."

"Yes, fairly obvious," replied Sherlock when the toaster sounded, and the detective turned his attention to the machine. John, again, stared at Sherlock as he put the toast on a plate and handed it to John with a jar of jam in his other hand.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked after seeing his flatmate at a loss.

"Huh? Me? No, just- I'm just really surprised. What's the occasion?"

"For what?"

"You being nice."

Sherlock chuckled. "I just figure that while I wait for you to finish your morning routine, I could be of some help to quicken the process. Preparing breakfast is the most logical choice since it's time-consuming, and not too personal a task."

"Yeah, I can see that," John muttered, "But why are you waiting for me?"

"To walk you to the surgery, of course."

Whatever haze was in John's head that morning had been swept out as if hit by tornado that very moment. "What?"

Sherlock sighed heavily then said, "I know you're not fully awake but honestly, John, any five-year-old can understand what I'm saying."

"Bloody hell. It's because their moms walk them to school. I'm not a five-year-old, Sherlock. I have no problem going to work by myself."

"You got kidnapped."

"That's not a normal occurrence."

His flatmate gave him a huff and tipped his head to the side, "I would beg you to consult with the Missing Person Unit about that."

"I'm NOT a bloody five-year-old, Sherlock. I'll be fine. Really," John protested. "And what on earth makes you think Moriarty will try to kidnap me again so soon? Won't it be stupid of him to repeat himself for the third time while pretty much the entire metropolitan police force is hunting him down?"

"I think he's brilliant enough to make it happen. The police are no match to him, John. You know that."

"Then why me?" John asked, locking his furious eyes with his flatmate's, "You seemed very convinced that he had a fixation on me, while I think he obviously has a fixation on you. Tell me why I'm wrong."

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock regarded him cautiously. John had no idea what the man was trying to gauge, but he seemed to know that John was waiting for an honest-to-god answer. He waited until Sherlock decided to speak; "You remember what he threatened me when he told me to back off."

Of course, John remembered, because it was the most ambiguous yet ominous thing he ever heard. "Burn the heart out of you," John quoted. Again, there was a pause in which John didn't know what to make of. Sherlock avoided his gaze in an almost sheepish manner, a manner never before associated with Sherlock Holmes. Then suddenly, something dawned on John, "He meant- you mean-"

"You're my friend, John. My_ best_ friend," his flatmate said solemnly, "What else would he mean?"

The doctor buried his face into his palm instantly, "Okay, let me get this straight. He's after me because I am your best friend… your heart?"

"Yes."

"What about Jane? She's your friend, too."

"We got together on business terms. Moreover, we haven't been in contact since I've been sober. Her influence on me can be considered null."

"But I have influence on you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Two people living together definitely have influence on each other, John," the detective replied with a strange mixture of fondness and contempt.

"With flatmates, that isn't always good."

Sherlock tipped his head and frowned, "Are you implying something?"

"Oh god, Sherlock, not you," John answered with a smirk. He took another bit of his toast before continuing, "You can be a prick, but I don't think you're a bad influence no matter what others might think."

Sherlock stared at him for a good couple of seconds then quickly diverted his eyes down to John's plate. "You should eat now, John, or you'll be late for your work."

John frowned. He was expecting a sharp retort about people from Sherlock, not Sherlock changing the subject, and definitely not Sherlock avoiding John's gaze. It was done so deliberately yet neatly that other people might not notice. But John was not just anybody. He felt instantly that something was off.

"What's wrong?" asked John.

Sherlock's reply was, "It's almost half past seven, John."

John turned to the clock, grunted, shoved the rest of the toast down his throat, and ran upstairs.

* * *

><p>Lestrade came to work that day to find a nasty surprise in his office.<p>

It was Commissioner Arthur Randall in the flesh sitting on his chair and stared at his subordinate like he was a big disappointment. To him, the DI might actually be one big disappointment considering what had gone on last night.

"I have heard the bomber has struck again," said the commissioner, barely moving the thin pale lips beneath his moustache.

"Yes, sir," Lestrade replied.

"And you have taken the case knowing it is against my order to do so."

"If I have known the inspector who has been assigned to the case, I would have informed him, sir. But I do not. I would think the most logical thing to do is to take care of the situation myself."

"And how, if I might ask, did you know of his movement?" asked Randall briskly, dismissing whatever Lestrade had said.

"You might know already that this man Moriarty has set up this serial bombing as a game to one Mr. Sherlock Holmes who is a very capable private detective. The man is an acquaintance of mine, so he came to me for help in the matter as soon as the man contacted him."

"Why did he not contact an officer-"

"I _am_ an officer, sir. And to put it frankly, this gargantuan beast of system would have gotten people blown to Kingdom Come before we even get started. You must understand, sir, that my priority is the safety of the people and I must do what I can to prevent any possible harm, especially from a dangerous madman."

Randall stared at him for a good few seconds before he sneered, "You are one of my best men, Lestrade, if not the best. It would sadden me greatly if I have to penalize you for any misconduct on your part. Hand in all the evidence and reports, and I'll see to it that the person has them."

The detective inspector raised his brows in a subtly taunting manner before he nodded. "If I may suggest, sir, it would be best to let if not me then Mr. Holmes know who is in charge of the case. Going through the system would take too much time."

The commissioner, however, only replied, "I'll think about it," as he walked out of the room.

It was only then that Lestrade really let his frustration kick in. He wanted so badly to throw a good tantrum in front of the commissioner for his irrational, illogical, frustratingly apathetic approach to the whole situation. Did he realize how many lives were at stake as long as this sickeningly mad game continued? Did he know how fast, how effective, how _clever_ they had to be just to keep up with clues and riddles? Did he even know what needed to be done? Lestrade could not bring that up because he knew that it would not sit well with the commissioner, and the same man might pull a drastic move and shut him out before he even had a clue as to why. He still needed to be in the game, personally and professionally, for Sherlock at least. A lot of people might know Sherlock but very few would tolerate him or really listen to him, and this was a far too serious a matter to let those child-play of dispute get in the way.

What he did not know was Sally Donovan had exactly the same thoughts as she stood in front of his door. She had overheard everything – the door wasn't that soundproof, really – and she knew that their positions were at risk because Randall would lash out at them the next time he as much as suspected that they were still involved in the case. She also knew that they needed to be in it; people lives depended on this. They had to work something out to secure their position in this game.

But how? They could not call the bomb squad in without the commissioner knowing. They could not let the Freak play this game on his own either. To Sally, it seemed more pressing now to figure out who might have taken the case. They needed his cooperation.

Lestrade's calling was on cue, and Sergeant Donovan walked in while feigning disinterest in whatsoever had gone on in this room just minutes ago. The DI was looking very stressed now, but he ordered her to take whatever evidence they had and hand it in regardless of his obvious disapproval. Sally nodded and frowned, showing both her disfavour in backing off this case and in the Commissioner. Lestrade smiled but did not comment on anything. Neither did she comment on the pink phone in his pocket.

* * *

><p>TBC.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7: Unfamiliar Normality

**Author's note: **Hi, there! I'm back now after some wrenching over this chapter. Thanks again to Eiko-chan for betareading this chapter and assured me it is rather fine. Please read and tell me what you think.

And thank you for fav and alert from some of my dear readers. Review would be nice, too.

Anyway, please enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>Part 7: Unfamiliar Normality<br>**

If there was any word to summarize John's week, it would be 'awkward'.

John was very self-conscious right from when he set foot out of the flat. Despite him walking around London with Sherlock numerous times before, it felt very different that morning. Sherlock was not leading the way like he used to. He was strolling beside John barely a step behind and letting John set the pace and the route. John never had that kind of control when he was around Sherlock; it was strange but not entirely unpleasant. He tried to enjoy that peculiar moment, but found himself unable to for a reason he couldn't quite grasp. He dismissed it, of course, feeling settled with the notion that it just simply never occurred before and leave it at that.

They walked in silence until they reached the surgery. Sherlock announced then that he wanted to have a look inside just in case the place had been tampered. That was when John had to put his foot down. It had really become awkward for him now that Sherlock announced he wanted to intrude this one and only Sherlock-free space. John didn't know why he was very keen in preserving it, but he insisted that they parted right there – a few meters away from the door – and forbade Sherlock from ever attempting to sneak in. He would not let his flatmate horrify the entire staff over a bomb that might not exist, or a madman who was capable of planting one.

After over ten minutes of arguing on the busy sidewalk and earning suspicious looks from passersby, Sherlock gave in. John had no idea what make the detective agree, but seeing John's reason did not seem like one. Nonetheless, John was satisfied. He took his leave and headed for the door. As he turned to say goodbye, he stopped at the sight of Sherlock looking somewhat wistfully at him. Those pale lips were pressed thinly together as he was thinking. John wasn't sure if he was actually watching him or already lost in his thoughts. He really didn't know what those thoughts might be given the unacquainted situation they were in. He suddenly felt awful about the fight despite himself not being wrong – no one was wrong, actually – and attempted a smile of reconciliation. Sherlock seemed a bit surprised by that. Nevertheless, the detective smiled gently back.

When John walked past the door, he literally felt like he just landed from outer space.

Everything after that was, of course, normal and mundane, and, well, good. He could almost forget Moriarty and the bomb and late night escape from an empty house except for when he recounted the incident to Sarah over lunch. She didn't say much aside from a comment of how lucky he wasn't strapped to a bomb again. He was grateful of that. He didn't want to dwell on it either.

He was thinking of taking her out that evening, but nothing ever went as planned for John because the first thing, or rather person, he saw as he walked out of his office was Sherlock sitting in the waiting room. The doctor basically gaped like a dying fish standing dumbfounded in the hallway.

The detective swept up to him as soon as their eyes met and flashed what could be interpreted as a subtly forced smile, "Shall we go now, John?"

John gaped for a few more seconds before he managed to say something intellectual, "What are you doing here?"

"Picking you up, of course," Sherlock replied casually. John could sense eyes, multiple pair of eyes, watching them.

"Well…that's very thoughtful of you, but you really don't have to. I actually have some other plans," he said and stole a quick glance at Sarah who was obviously observing from the reception desk.

If Sherlock had followed his gaze, if Sherlock had known what he was implying, that man, like always, was not bothered. "Now, John, you know we have to meet Lestrade this evening, and I would rather have you fed before that. How about Angelo's?"

"Sherlock," he hissed and rubbed his eyes; "Can we talk somewhere else?"

"That is what I am proposing," replied the man. He proceeded to drag John out of the surgery right then. John barely had a chance to say goodbye to Sarah before they were out on the street and headed for Northumberland Street.

But John didn't wait until they got to Angelo's to start talking. He needed to draw a line so things wouldn't get too uncomfortable for him or his flatmate. He voiced his disapproval of Sherlock walking him around, taking him places, and picking him up, in which the detective replied with a huff and again said it was a necessity, that it is better for them to be cautious than to let Moriarty have his way.

"Look, Sherlock, I managed Afghanistan. Why do you think I won't be able to manage this?" John asked.

"You were not alone in Afghanistan," the detective replied without as much as looking at him.

"Mycroft has surveillance teams looking out for us."

"Which are useless by the way. Even you can break loose from them if you try."

"Well, thank you," John replied, irritated. Sherlock was not listening to him at all.

And he knew Sherlock could hear it. The detective grumbled, "What exactly is your problem, John?" he asked.

"I have already explained my problem a couple of times today."

"No, you haven't. You are just being resistive and try to talk me out of doing it," replied Sherlock, looking rather annoyed; "You don't mind accompanying me on cases or going out for meals. I fail to see why I accompanying you to work would be any different."

"Well, it is, you see, because I don't want you to."

At this Sherlock turned around and stopped them both on the track. He took a glance at John before he asked with low and emotionless tone, "Are you ashamed of me?"

John's jaw dropped. "Fu- god, NO! Sherlock, where did you get that idea from?" How the hell did they get there anyway?

The detective didn't look directly at him as he answered, "All the people I know know about you. I'm not reluctant in introducing you to anyone. You, however, have a certain circle you don't want me to mingle with. I can only assume that it was because you found me unacceptable in some aspects-"

"Sherlock, no. No! That's not it. Now look at me!" John said as he pulled Sherlock's arm and faced him. "I'm not ashamed of you," he said now in a much gentler voice, "I wouldn't have gone with you on cases if I was ashamed of knowing you, would I?"

John swallowed hard as he waited for a reply, a reaction, but Sherlock simply diverted his gaze from him without a faintest glimpse of what he was thinking. It frustrated John to not be able to read what was on his friend's mind especially at a time like this.

"Sally warned you, didn't she? I'm not normal," Sherlock muttered at last.

"No, you aren't," John replied, "But I don't need you to be normal. I would rather not have you normal." At that, Sherlock stared at him like he was trying to discern the meaning behind those words. It was rather intimidating, but John stood his ground. He stared back.

"I really mean it. I don't want you to be anything but Sherlock Holmes."

A moment passed as they just stood on a pavement among the crowd walking back and forth staring at each other. John firmly held Sherlock's gaze as his flatmate held his. Eventually, Sherlock asked, "What is it then?"

At this, John swallowed. He didn't know himself why he was very self-conscious and sometimes even uncomfortable about the idea of Sherlock walking with him. Well, they had walked together before. Sherlock was right in saying that now shouldn't be any different. Somehow, it just didn't feel the same. He wouldn't call their usual nightly strolls 'walking together' either. He was always chasing Sherlock, keeping up with him, watching his back. This was the first time the role was reverse and Sherlock was the one looking after him. It felt wrong somehow, and he still could not come up with a good reason as to why.

"Look, I really don't have an explanation for it. I just know how I feel, and I know it's not even logical. I feel like you are invading the last shred of privacy that I had left. But it's not like work is a private thing. Or maybe I'm just too used to looking at your back…" He gave a groan as a furrow formed on his flatmate's forehead, "Right, forget it. I'm hungry. Let's go."

Now he was the one dragging Sherlock to Angelo's. The detective seemed to be contemplating deeply on what he had just heard. The way he eyed John at time made him nervous and gave Angelo an even faultier idea about their relationship in which John was hopeless in correcting. He simply ate his meal in silence as Sherlock nipped his pasta, lost to the world. John wondered what Sherlock understood from that short, spontaneous burst of confusion that made him so quiet, but he was too afraid of the answer to actually ask.

Why? He didn't know himself.

They finished their meals and headed for Scotland Yard soon after to find a nasty surprise waiting for them. "What do you mean by handing over all the evidence?" Sherlock snarled at the DI who remained cold as ice as he watched the detective fumed with rage.

"I got a _direct_ order," replied Lestrade, "This is not my case anymore."

"Well, yes, then whose is it?" Sherlock asked, frustrated. He hated being held back, especially when it seemed to involve some kind of politics or hidden agenda.

Lestrade shook his head. "No idea. It's getting fishier all the time. He's obviously up to something."

"I thought that should be obvious a long time ago," replied Sherlock angrily; "Where's Sergeant Donovan?"

Both John and the Detective Inspector knew it was not a mere remark or a friendly interest when Sherlock asked this kind of question. Yet they had no idea what that question was supposed to lead to. Lestrade simply resigned to the fact that he might never know. "Off looking for something. She lost something this morning – a bracelet I think – and been asking around for it. But, Sherlock, why are you asking?"

But Sherlock ignored him. "What was she doing this morning?" he asked.

"Taking the evidence to the archive."

"Good, then. She has been doing her job," uttered Sherlock with the lack of his usual sarcasm. John eyed him curiously as the detective went on, "Now, what have you got?"

The DI sighed again before he answered, "Well, we ran the number on the gun John gave us. It's stolen, as expected, from a military base. We're still running the fingerprints on the thing. Looks like our friend has been consulting for illicit arm trade."

"Which is not at all surprising. What else did you learn?"

"The bomb was not at the pub."

At this, Sherlock jerked forward. "What do you mean it was not at the pub?" he demanded.

"It was at the back of the pub in the alleyway. The building was not extensively damaged because of that. Nobody was hurt."

"But that's not right," protested Sherlock even as John sighed in relief, "Moriarty wouldn't plant a bomb in a place like that. It has to be moved there for some reason."

"Maybe that's why it blew up," John suggested.

"No casualties, remember? The person carrying the bomb would have died. It would have been so messy even the most imbecile would notice. No, it blew up after it was placed there and the person was out of the area. It's a time bomb, isn't it? So the clock was set to midnight, but why would it blew up hours before that, unless…" Sherlock froze, his eyes widened. "Someone was there to dismantle the bomb."

"But who?" asked Lestrade, "We were on a cab and no other knew about it but us."

"Maybe one of Moriarty's men felt guilty and decided to go against his order?" John offered.

"Very unlikely but most probable at the moment. He would be killed by now if that's the case. But it exploded, so we know the person is not involved with assembling the bomb – he didn't know about its structure and ended up blowing it – therefore a possibility of him being a third party. Someone who knew about the bomb, but not directly associated with Moriarty."

"Right," replied the DI thoughtfully as he noted it down, "Invisible third party. That complicates things."

"Just keep your eyes out for any sign of someone else intervening. If he's against Moriarty, he shouldn't be a problem for us. For now we can work on the assumption that there is likely none," Sherlock added. "Anything else?"

"Ms. Jenkins just checked into a rehab this afternoon," said Lestrade out of the blue. "Not case related, but I thought you might want to know."

"Not particularly interested," replied Sherlock casually. John, however, noticed his flatmate stiffened a bit at the mention of her. "Anything else?"

There wasn't anything of great importance after that, just paper work and all things mundane and boring. Sherlock became impatient after a while, and they took their leave. As they were going back, however, Lestrade pulled John aside and stuffed the pink phone into his hand.

"It'll be safer with you," the DI whispered. "I can't keep it, nor do I trust Sherlock with it. You're the only person I trust to hold on to it. Text me if anything comes up."

"Will do," John replied. He placed it in his pocket and nodded to Lestrade before he set off after Sherlock who has been waiting for him outside the office.

"You know I can pickpocket that from you," his flatmate muttered on their way out.

"Yes, you can," said John; "But you won't do it."

Sherlock eyed him sternly but John simply glanced back with a smirk. "There's no need to steal something you'll always have access to, isn't it? I'll tell you immediately if something comes up."

Sherlock still eyed him as he said, "That would mean you'll always be involved."

"I never intend to back out, not when we're both this deep in it," replied John. Although his flatmate seemed as apathetic as ever, John knew this sociopath was actually able to care. "If Moriarty won't leave me alone, then it's better for me to be all up on him, isn't it? There's no point running or hiding anyway."

At this, Sherlock agreed albeit somewhat reluctantly. They knew there was no other way around it, but John could accept the fact more readily than Sherlock because he was a soldier. He understood very well that sometimes the only thing you could do was plunge into the battle and hoped you would survive. Moreover, he wasn't going to let Sherlock face this alone by himself. What kind of friend would he be if he did?

The result of his declaration, however, seemed to set Sherlock onto a new direction. The detective decided to integrate John as a part of his life now, although the change came rather subtly. It was in the attention Sherlock gave him, John Watson his dull normal friend, as if trying to wreck John's thought to the last brain cell. He was asking more about John even though he was rarely one to start the conversation. And when he thought John was feeling put-off by his poking questions, he told the doctor about himself in amendment. John probably learnt more about Sherlock in that week than in the past months since they became flatmates. John would be lying if he said he wasn't flattered by the depth of Sherlock's trust.

John reciprocated by being less resistant about their walks and tried to be of some assistance about Moriarty. Sherlock, however, did not quite let him in on that. John knew that Sherlock saw something in the great pattern of their game but would not speak or decided that it was not the time, so John didn't push it.

But John being more accepting did not stop Sherlock from asking for a view in the surgery for the fear of a trap being set overnight for John. John countered him with the argument that if Moriarty really wanted to play a game with them, he wouldn't kill John that easily. And there were too many people there to abduct the doctor out the backdoor without being noticed. Sherlock pondered over his statement and nodded, agreeing that he wouldn't need a thorough check of the place. John later realized that it was more likely because they were already in front of the door which allowed Sherlock a view of the waiting room. If there was any drawback, it was the exposure of their morning routine to entire staffs. And trust people to talk.

It didn't take long to get the rumour going, especially with Sherlock texting him or even calling him to see what he was doing and where he was. He heard about it from Sarah who asked if he and Sherlock were really together. The answer, of course, was no. But only to Sarah did he ever explain why he had to keep his mouth shut and let others talk. Sarah nodded silently, taking everything he said. Somehow, John felt sorry for her. He hadn't seen her outside the hours since he got back, and she didn't say a word about it. She was just being too damn understanding that it hurt. But he didn't know what to do. God. He had really tried his best to make her happy, but everything seemed to be going downhill.

And Sarah knew. She had tried to be cheerful in front of John, not letting her worries on. John appreciated that, but he never thought how it would spur his misery. By the end of the week, he wanted his normal life back. He wanted to be running after Sherlock on cases and came to work the next morning with a story of their little misadventure tailored to make Sarah laugh. He wanted a date with her at the cinema (No more circus, please. Thank you). He wanted whatever he had before Moriarty came along.

But normal was the last thing on the list when one evening he came out of his shift to find the waiting room devoid of the tall lean figure of his flatmate.

His foot stumbled to a stop. His eyes darted about. He checked his phone. The time was right, and Sherlock was never late. They just texted a couple of hours ago about getting the grocery on the way back. He texted again, but received no immediate reply. He didn't know what to make of it.

"I'm sure he's fine, Dr. Watson," One of the nurse replied with a knowing grin. She obviously spotted John in panic. "It's raining cats and dogs outside. He probably got stuck somewhere in the traffic."

"Right," John muttered under his breath. Of course it was the traffic. What else could it be in this kind of weather? Cabs were probably all occupied and Sherlock probably had to take a bus or a tube that was by now jam-packed with people trying to get away from the rain. He might not be able to reach for his phone. There was nothing to worry about.

So John reached for his umbrella, said good-bye to the nurse, and walked out onto the street. In this kind of situation, it would be best for him to get the grocery himself and go home. He didn't know where Sherlock was; the man could be half the city away for all he knew. He texted Sherlock again and headed for the tube station. He would have to settle with a store near the flat for today. He never liked the chip-and-pin machine anyway.

There was a pleasant surprise for him on his way home however. He was walking back from the grocer when he spotted a figure standing alone under a small awning in front of a café already closed for the day. It took him no time to recognize that it was Ciel Phantomhive looking grumpy and miserable.

"Hullo," he greeted, a bit too enthusiastically perhaps. He was relieved that the young man looked rather fine.

Ciel turned around and seemed surprised to see him. The young man cracked a smile and greeted him. "Hello, John. How have you been?"

"Well, things have been normal," the doctor replied, "as in no more bombs or disturbing messages. How about you? I haven't heard anything from you since that night."

"Fine, thank you" the young man answered sardonically, "God hates me as usual." His eyes darted up to the sky with clear disgust.

"You got stuck here?" John asked.

"Yes, I was out here working over a late lunch and the rain decided to pour down on me just as the café closed."

"Sebastian can't pick you up?" John suggested. Remembering vaguely that the man had a car and he was supposedly Ciel's assistant.

"Away on a business trip so I can stay here and study in peace," the young man replied, "That's his job anyway."

"Right…well, are you in a hurry?" he asked, "I mean, it's going to rain for a while and you might as well come over to my flat and wait there instead. It wasn't far off."

Ciel looked utterly surprised. He seemed at a lost with words for a good few seconds before he remembered to reply, "I'm… thank you, but there's no need, really."

"Or I can hold this umbrella for you until you get a cab," said John with a smile on his face.

Both of them knew it would take god-knows-how-long to find an empty cab in this weather, and Ciel was left with no other option but to accept John's invitation. They started their short walk to 221B Baker Street with a warning from the young man. "I'll be an awkward guest."

"You'll be fine. We have far worse."

"What about your flatmate?"

That was the first time John wished the traffic would jam for a bit longer. "He's not in. Don't worry."

"On another case?" the young man asked.

"Yeah, something he mentioned to be rather dull. He took those kinds of things these days. His mind was preoccupied."

"Moriarty?"

John swallowed. The tightening of his jaw was enough. And Ciel saw it.

"Any news since that night?" he asked.

"Nothing in particular. Nothing really." John replied. "The police traced the gun and the fingerprint on it and found it to be stolen from South America. The man was listed as a mercenary last known to operate in the Middle East."

"That's where they are needed these days," muttered Ciel to himself as they walked up the steps of 221 B. John unlocked the door and led them upstairs where the door was already opened. It set off the alarm in John, and he quickly darted up the seventeen steps in mere seconds. It was not good. It couldn't be an evil crime organization's doing, but it was still not good.

He stumbled on something lying across the front door and almost fell if not for Ciel steadying him from behind. He thanked the young man when his eyes spotted the objects on the floor – it was Sherlock's shoes and socks all soaking wet. The detective's coat was on the back of his chair dripping water all over the floor. And in the kitchen was Sherlock washing his hand at the sink. His soaking wet clothes were hugging his thin frame tightly.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John as he strode over to his flatmate. He spotted, then, the first aid kit and a cloth damped with reddish fluid. It didn't take long for John to see the bruised knuckles and a trail of blood streaming down Sherlock's temple. "Good Lord, what happened?"

"A fight, nothing special," replied the detective, but John forced him to go change into his dressing gown, and fast.

If Sherlock had noticed a guest, he didn't mention it. He was back within minutes in a dressing gown and slippers as John boiled the water and started examining his flatmate. The doctor found a cut just above the end of his brow that needed some stitching, a few bruises on his shoulder and arms, and wounds on the knuckles. Fist fight, then. Probably a brawl out in the goddamned rain.

He was so concentrated on treating Sherlock that he, for a moment, had forgotten Ciel completely. He remembered the young man again when he finished patching up Sherlock, and a steaming mug was set on the table in front of him. John startled and blushed with embarrassment when he realized that his guest had just made them tea.

"I'm sorry for going through your cupboard. You were very focused," said the young man as he found himself a seat opposite of John, and right beside Sherlock who didn't seemed to be bothered by his presence.

"Umm, thanks for the tea," the doctor replied; "By the way this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is-"

"Ciel Phantomhive. Yes, I know who he is," replied the detective. He sipped from his cupped before he turned to the young man. "How's your leg?" asked Sherlock, and the doctor stared at him with wide eyes.

"Quite fine, thank you," replied Ciel. He didn't seem surprise or put off by the bizarre choice of pleasantry at all. "It hadn't acted up for a while. Thought you wouldn't notice."

"It's hard to notice, actually," replied Sherlock. "If not for the folded cane, I don't think I'd consider it a problem."

"How? What?" John gaped while looking back and forth between the two, especially at Ciel who seemed more than fine with the question, earning a look from both of them as if he was the densest person in the room.

"Oh, never mind. Anyway, what happened to you?" he asked, addressing his flatmate who seemed bemused by the fact that the guest seemed entirely comfortable with the conversation, not something that happened often. John had to clear his throat and asked again to get his attention, "Did you step on someone's foot again?"

Sherlock laid back against the chair and gave a dramatic sigh. "That's a regular occurrence, John. Why else would Moriarty want me done with?" his flatmate replied.

John blinked and gave his flatmate one of his disconcerted smiles. He asked, "So who's the next person to go after you now?"

"There's no second one, John."

That answer was enough. John lunged forward, as if he was attacked with a sudden realization. "So you are taking cases that might link to Moriarty. Is that what you are doing?"

"Better than waiting," replied his flatmate flatly.

John shut his loosened jaw before he managed a word. "Sherlock," he paused. He didn't really know what was happening with his feeling at the moment. "You're saying you're stamping his foot on purpose now."

"Why not? It's sooner or later. I'm just giving him an incentive."

"To _kill_ you, for god's sake!" John was almost shouting now. He was angry. Really, really angry. "I know you're an idiot, but I didn't know you are this hopeless, Sherlock. Who in the right mind-"

"It's the right move, John," interjected Ciel calmly. It startled John more than he would admit. Even Sherlock turned sharply to the young man. But Ciel still gazed at John, his face rested in his hand as he explained. "If you simply wait, you will just be attacked from the dark. Better way to do it is to pressure him to take a move. You might manage to coax his direction of attack that way."

"Will not work with Moriarty. He's too clever," muttered Sherlock.

The young man shifted his gaze to Sherlock with a smirk on his face. "Why, that's something coming from you, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," said the detective as he turned toward the young man with a grin John was hopeless to read. "Is that what you intend to do for your parent's murderers as well? Lure them out?"

"Sherlock," John warned sternly under his breath, but the question didn't seem to bother Ciel at all.

"I would do what it takes to get to the truth," said the young man, still holding Sherlock's gaze; "I will be the bait if that means they will come into the open. I'll have them all on me."

"Seems like you have an opinion about your parents' murder," remarked the detective.

Ciel smirked with a tinge of melancholy in his eye, "What do you think? I've read a lot about you from John's blog. You truly are amazing. I bet you have an opinion, too."

"I have a few, actually," replied the detective. "It's an organized crime. Not just random robbery or simple homicide. They wouldn't have kidnapped you if that were the case nor have killed your parents if the intention were the other way. So, there had to be something else, something about your parents that the public did not know. Some kind of connection to the underworld, perhaps, or else they wouldn't be killed like crime lords. But why burn down the house? Why was killing them not enough? There must be something in the house they wanted to destroy. They might have tried to find it, but failed, thus burning the place down to complete destruction to ensure that whatever there was, it was gone for good. But they didn't touch you. They would have and should have killed you to eliminate all witnesses, but they didn't. They wanted to get rid of you eventually, but they also had a special intention for you. They sold you-"

"SHERLOCK!"

There was a moment of dreadful silence afterwards. Sherlock wasn't even looking at John. His eyes set straight at the young man leaving John to regain his breath after the outburst. The doctor just couldn't have it. Sherlock was saying too much, and touching too close to Ciel's hurt. The young man's expression hadn't changed. He was still looking into Sherlock's eyes without so much as flinching. But John was able to tell that the sadness was there. It was clogging up the room like smoke.

"You really are brilliant," said Ciel softly at last. There was barely emotion in those four words he had spoken, as if he feared he would crumble if he ever let on more than a subdued admiration of the man's talent. John knew it was about time to change the subject.

"Biscuits, anyone?" he asked.

There was a "no, thank you" from Sherlock and "yes, please," from Ciel, so John got up and fetched a box. He allowed himself a brief rub on the bridge of his nose before returning to the table and offered the biscuits to the young man.

It was then that John noticed something unsettling: Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off Ciel the entire time. Sherlock didn't care when the young man first set foot in 221B, but now he had become the subject of the detective's attention. Ciel, however, disregarded Sherlock's rather intimidating interest and continued their conversation with lighter air than it had previously become. As a soldier, John had met many people both before and after a battlefield. He rarely met anyone who took such emotional attack with this great a nerve.

John wasn't going to try those nerves. He purposefully steered the conversation away to lighter topics like the young man's current interest or subjects at school. The closest they ever got to the horrific subject was about Sherlock's cases. Ciel seemed genuinely interested in Sherlock's working on the case, and the detective was well distracted in explaining the deductions, and sometimes complaining of John's tendency to omit it, that he never mentioned a word about the Phantomhives again. His brain was busy enough with Ciel's questions that he didn't pull his concentrated stare for the rest of their conversation. And John was thankful for it.

They didn't realize when the rain stopped. They only notice the change in weather when Ciel's phone rang. At the glance of the caller, he excused himself and rushed to the hall.

"Hi, Sugar," he started cooing softly behind the half-closed door "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was this late. I forgot to call."

On the other end of the line came a deep smooth voice of a man, "You're at the flat, I see. Do you need more time?"

"No, I'm just hanging out at a friend's place. He's keeping me sheltered from the bloody rain," he poked his head into the door and stole a glance at the window. "No, I'll be there. But we'll have to change plans. How about we meet at Oxford Circus? Would that be okay?"

The reply was "Certainly. At what time?"

"In about fifteen minutes top. Are you done for the day?"

"All done," was the reply.

Ciel smirked a little and nodded, "See you then. Bye, bye." Then he hung up and rushed back in. "Sorry, I forgot the time. I have an appointment. Gotta dash," he said while grabbing his things and told both men goodbye, and that he didn't need to be seen out.

The flat door was barely closed when Sherlock muttered, "He's already figured that out."

That took John by surprise. "Figure what out," he asked.

"About his parents' death," the detective elaborated, "He wasn't surprised at all. He knows that was the only satisfying explanation."

The doctor was perplexed by this. "Then why did he ask for your opinion?"

The detective shook his head. "He doesn't want my opinion, John. He wants Moriarty's head."

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><p>TBC.<p>

**Author's note:** Next chapter will be Ciel in all his glory. So, stay tune. :D


	8. Chapter 8: The Young Master

**Author's Note: **Might be a minor spoiler if you've been reading Black Butler but haven't finish the Circus Arc, or haven't watch the entire season one, yet. If you're not into Black Butler, no harm can be done.

Thanks again to _Eiko-chan_ for beta-reading and commenting. I'm chuffed that you enjoy this. I hope I give you a satisfying Ciel!rant in this chapter. :D (We definitely need more of Ciel being his bratty self here.)

And thanks _bby_ as well, I'll certainly write more even if Sebastian threatens me not to.

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><p><strong>Part 8: The Young Master<strong>

The rain had stopped when Ciel walked out of 221B. The city was awfully wet, but people were already out and about as the sun started to shine through the cloud. The young man quickly hopped across the road and headed for the tube station. He didn't want to waste a minute in the precious fifteen he had, the way a young man who supposed to have a date would if he had just fifteen minutes to spare. But as he turned the corner, a black sedan caught his eye – too sleek to be owned by a common bloke, yet too plain to attract attention. But to the eyes that had beholden it once, it stood out in any busy street at any busy time.

Despite that, he continued on his path with constant pace, not sparing another glance at the car. However, he knew that it had moved to him from behind, and when he stopped, so did it. The driver came out and opened the door to the backseat for him. The young man climbed in quietly.

The door shut behind him and the car started to move again. The trap had closed and he was sitting in the middle of it like an insect in a Venus's Flytrap, but Ciel didn't care. He rested his chin on the back of his hand and stared out the window undisturbed. One must transcend emotion and situation; that was what the old man taught him. Only ones who could see clearly would win.

Thus he waited patiently, not anticipating or making suppositions, until the man on the other side of the seat started to speak, "I thought we have an agreement."

"I have honoured your request," he replied.

It was greeted sardonically, "By conversing with him in his flat?"

Ciel groaned. He answered, "If you know that much, you should already know that I have not uttered a word about who I really am."

"You are underestimating him," the other remarked.

But the young man begged to differ, "I presented to him the complete and consistent impression of myself. How many people would doubt a complete description and seek an over-completed one unless there is something to doubt? You know the man and his method better than me, Mycroft. And you know I haven't lied."

And indeed Mycroft knew. He only needed a glance at the young man to know that everything Ciel had presented neither pointed to his association with Mycroft or his actual profession. His clothing was chosen to blend him in to the crowd of university students with signs of wears and tears from actually wearing it to school for years. In actuality, Ciel didn't really need school; Mycroft could attest to that as he witnessed the boy passing grades after grades with ease. It was a formality and a necessity in order to appear 'normal'. His cover story for school absences was also true; Ciel indeed was a game consultant only that he mainly consulted for his own game company, the Funtom, as an executive creative director. The management was placed in capable hands that Ciel was rarely needed aside from occasional meetings to set the direction of the company. His most time-consuming job were neither being a student nor a game consultant but consulting for a completely different kind of crowd.

Mycroft still remembered the day he first set eyes upon the young man. He was merely a boy then, but something in him was different right from the start. There was neither a tinge of innocence in his eye nor a tad of fear as he stood in Mycroft's office and defied all odds of preventing him in. He was a sight to behold, a talent to be assessed and sharpened. But now when Mycroft looked at the fearless twenty-year-old next to him, he sometimes regretted not sending the boy away in the first place.

And Ciel always noticed those moments of recollection and regret. He harboured a hatred for it. "I'm not your brother, Mycroft," he whispered; "I don't need your protection, nor does he need one. This is my case, and this is my method. You can save yourself the worry and put more effort into managing the government. We can talk later if you want, but right now I have a rendezvous at Oxford Circus to keep if you don't mind."

Mycroft Holmes gave him a stern look for his tone but ordered his chauffeur to bring them to the intersection regardless. It wasn't very far off, and Ciel got off the car in time. Before he left, he bent down and whispered, "You need to trust people for once, Mycroft."

"Said my little demon," replied the elder Holmes, and the young man smirked.

"Well, aren't we all evil?" He shut the door, and walked off.

Not far from the dropping point, another car moved in as soon as the black one disappeared around the corner. Ciel stopped on his track and let it move to his side before slipping into it without a word.

"Seems like you just got a royal treatment," said the driver- Sebastian Michaelis.

Ciel huffed sardonically, "I'm honoured."

"Now, now," replied the man, "sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, remember?"

At this, Ciel rolled his eyes and relaxed into his seat. "Fine. Let's go home. And I want a cup of tea when we get back."

"Certainly. I just bought a great selection of cheese this morning. What tea would you like to go with it?"

"Darjeeling."

"Sugar?"

Ciel turned sharply at Sebastian who grinned widely as soon as he saw the young man's face turned red with embarrassment. "Shut up," he muttered. And Sebastian, like always, obeyed.

It took them a while to get through the traffic to their place in a different part of town. It was an old building in a rather quiet neighbourhood – much to Ciel's liking. He hated London for its crowd and would rather live without the fuzzy social creatures around if possible, but his jobs required his presence in the city. He was grateful that he had this fortress of brick walls to himself for those stressful times.

The guardian of the fortress – his landlord and godfather – greeted him at the back door where Sebastian parked his car. He was an elderly Japanese gentleman who was ever so polite in opening the door for them regardless of the hour. He didn't need to, of course, but it was his preference of seeing everyone that came and went from this building, a habit Ciel favoured.

"Evening, Tanaka-san," the young man replied as he slipped his jacket off and threw it on the banister before walking up the stairs without sparing the raggedy thing another glance. Tanaka sighed, and picked the jacket up.

"Any news today?" the elderly man asked fondly; "You were meant to meet one Sherlock Holmes, I believe."

"It was a successful attempt," the young man answered with something akin to a smile; "Is everyone here yet?"

"Yes."

"That's good. Thank you. I'll be upstairs," said Ciel as he moved swiftly to his flat. His flat – oh, how the pronoun could be so misleading. He never felt like he owned the flat since it served as a common room for his colleagues as well. Two of them were waiting for him in his sitting room when he arrived: a fellow some years older than him, and a girl of the same age. They were both quite discomposed as per usual.

"Evening, Ciel," said the man. His blue eyes shone brightly behind the glasses, and he grinned widely. It made him looked stupid and harmless and annoyingly cheerful. Of course, looks could deceive, but unfortunately the annoyingly cheerful part was the absolute and honest truth.

"Evening, Finny, Maylene," he greeted whilst sitting down on his chair or, as Sebastian called it with good humour, the Throne. It indeed looked like one with its majestic design, gargantuan size, and shiny leather. Although he never laid a solitary claim on the thing, no one dared sit on it. The only time anyone touched it was when Maylene waxed it up.

Like a king waiting for his court to assemble, he looked around the room and spotted something unusual. "Where is Bard?" he asked.

The two of them looked at each other and their expression sank a little. "Well," started the girl sheepishly, "he's… down in the basement. He'll be up here soon."

"He still feels a bit down about messing up the bomb," Finny expanded and Ciel rolled his eyes.

"It's already been a week," Ciel muttered, annoyed.

"He's getting better," said Maylene; "You have to understand him. You were probably an hour short of getting face to face with James Moriarty, and he ruined it. You know he takes his duty very seriously."

"Then he might as well take his time and figure the bomb out," Ciel muttered angrily and both Finny and Maylene shut their mouths quickly. Although Ciel liked being authoritative, he found constant submissiveness towards him irritating at times. He got up from his chair, marched to the door, and shouted,

"Tanaka-san, tell Bard to come here immediately." Then he walked to his seat and skimmed through the newspaper just to get his mind off frustration.

The only person who seemed to find this stressful situation amusing was Sebastian. He came from the kitchen with a pleasant grin on his face and a tray of tea, cheese, and cracker to enjoy during the meeting. He muttered "Poor Baldroy" quietly as he bent down to place the tray on the coffee table, and Ciel glared at him from over the paper in return.

It took less than five minutes for Baldroy to show up. His tall muscular figure seemed to shrink a little as he entered, but he still walked like a soldier – a legacy of his military career. If there was anything not soldierly about him was how he flopped unceremoniously on an empty space on the couch and lit a cigarette without once looking Ciel in the eye. Baldroy rarely ever listened to anyone but his own instinct anyway, and Ciel didn't particularly care. It was that instinct that led this man to his pack in the first place, although it fell short of expectation each time it was put to anything but the battle.

Still, Tanaka seemed to have high hopes for Bard. Ciel didn't really understand the motivation. He just knew that Bard was reliable for a good set of tasks and that was enough. However, he never doubted the old man; no one in a good mind doubted Tanaka, not even Mycroft Holmes.

The old man came in last and sat down with a large folder on his lap. He gave Ciel a sharp nod as if to bow to the young man. And Ciel cleared his throat and turned to Baldroy. "What were you doing in the basement?" he asked.

The man's breath hitched a little as he pulled the cigarette from his lips. "Testing the equipment," he replied.

Ciel's brows furrowed. "I thought you have done a thorough investigation on that modified AK-47 already."

"Yeah, just…" The man took another drag. He didn't found the strength to finish.

Ciel sighed. He barked sharply, "You know I hate wasting bullets. Quit brooding already. We had no casualties. I told you that was a result on its own."

Bard cleared his throat nervously as he sat up straight, and Ciel sighed again before he turned to the old man. "Tanaka-san, do we have anything on the Mastermind?" he asked.

"Not much, I'm afraid," replied the old man with a warm grin as he stopped at a page in the folder; "James Moriarty, born in Sussex, understandably goes by various other pseudonyms. Went to same school as the unfortunate Carl Powers who was apparently his first victim. No official criminal records. No signs of violence or abuse in his immediate family. He seems, at first glance, an average person."

"Personal history?" the young man asked.

"Born to a single mother who was estranged from her parents a few years before his birth. Nothing of particularly interest showed up in the record of the neighbourhood during their stay. They moved to London after he finished junior-high and the death of the unfortunate boy. Apparently, he got himself into a prestigious school that his mother wasn't able to afford, so he dropped out and entered a small school not far from the first. He was able to get into a university with exceptional score in mathematics and graduated with a degree in computer engineering. He seems to be employed on and off mostly as a freelancer and pays his taxes regularly. No sign of foul-play," the old man added.

"Has his mother always been single?" asked Ciel.

"Apparently, she had been in relationships, but all ended rather abruptly. There was a particularly serious one before she died," answered Tanaka.

"I see," the young man muttered as he poured himself a cup of tea, obviously using the time to contemplate the information before he looked up and set the tea cup and the saucer on his lap. "With a background in mathematics and computer engineering, he is most likely a talented hacker among other things." He shifted his gaze briefly to Finny, who swallowed hard. "You better upgrade the security on our communication systems just to be safe."

"Yes, sir," Finny replied, but Ciel's mind was already elsewhere.

"I don't suppose you got the name of his latest employer since St. Bart's, do you?" he asked Tanaka. The old man shook his head.

"Disappeared, you might say," Tanaka replied.

"Still too injured to move around without being suspicious, then. It must have been boring for him," Ciel paused, "Then he must have arranged this current game with someone's help. Any name showed up?"

"No, unfortunately. The man's shadow is even harder to grasp than the man himself, " said Tanaka with a sigh. "We've tried tracking down leads in each case we know for that." He, then, flipped to another page in the folder and cleared his throat before he continued.

"I've looked into the assassin that was sent for Miss Hooper. He was a military personnel trained in the US army and invalided from Afghanistan just after the first phase of operation. Mental instability, they say, being reported with several serious misbehaviours. He seemed normal before the military, but ended up a completely different person after the war. He had a large track record of crime in the US after he was invalid but mostly minor charges. No particular name showed up among his recent acquaintances that might be the connection."

"Probably missed the battlefield too much," Ciel muttered to himself, "When did he come into contact with Moriarty?"

"Most likely around four years ago," replied Sebastian, "That was when the record thinned. He came to England last year under a forged passport."

"But Aberline told us he left only one trace on this side of the Atlantic," remarked Ciel; "He was called here only recently. Moriarty has other men taking care of this area for him. Then why called this amateur in?"

"Because, he was an amateur perhaps," mused Sebastian out loud; "Because he would leave a trace."

Ciel's eyes widened, and Finny frowned. "Wait, I don't get it," the Finny interjected, "Are you saying that guy Moriarty really wanted to kill his girlfriend?"

"Obviously, Finny," said Ciel with a deep frown himself; "What did you think he was trying to do?"

"But she was his girlfriend!"

"That was an act. He just wanted to get to Sherlock Holmes."

"Like what you're doing now?"

That question sent the crowd into a formidable silence. Tanaka was stealing a glance over his glasses at Ciel's direction as Maylene and Bard looked away. Only Finny and Sebastian were looking directly at Ciel who was looking at no one.

"Yes, you might say so," replied Ciel, now looking straight at Finny. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Everyone knew it was a challenge, including the socially inept Finny, who simply shook his head as a reply. He whispered,

"It's just sad."

"Life is sad. You should be aware of that by now," replied Ciel apathetically as he set the teacup down. He lay back in his chair, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers together, "So Molly Hooper was meant to be a part of the game. That is what you were saying, right, Sebastian?"

"I would suppose so," replied the man. "It would also make his use of Golem logical. An assassin with too obvious a signature is usually a very bad choice unless you want someone to recognize his doing."

"As one consulting detective has."

Sebastian simply smiled.

At this, Ciel leaned forward to the coffee table and picked three pieces of different cheeses. He placed them on his saucer.

"Molly Hooper, John Watson, and Jane Jenkins – all of them are related to Sherlock Holmes. So he's not just challenging Sherlock Holmes's intellect. He's attacking his person directly via each connection – each piece of his heart – burning it out one by one. But not all pieces are equal; Moriarty has seen it firsthand when he was dating Molly Hooper."

He paused as his eyes focused and he picked up the middle piece, color darkened with age. He twisted it between his fingers as he spoke, "Then he saw that there is just one connection that truly worth something to Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock realizes that. He tried to control the game by sending signals left and right that this is the only one that matters, trying to have Moriarty concentrate every attack to where he can see. But he said so himself that Moriarty is too clever to be fooled; that man already found Jane Jenkins. We need to find other pieces before Moriarty finds them."

"But how?" asked Finny as he looked around wide eyes. Baldroy simply sighed.

"Well, people usually make a lot of friends in college," said Bard as he lit another cigarette; "You know, there are group projects and such. You don't really go solo, not all the time. And people socialize a lot."

"Then we can ask Miss Jenkins," suggested Maylene; "Moriarty had spoken to her too, right?"

Ciel nodded, but Sebastian interjected, "I don't think Moriarty relies too much on her. We still need to cross-reference with other people who might know him, like the banker Sebastian Wilkins, but it will be a tricky interrogation."

"Or we can cross-reference with the man himself," said Ciel.

Sebastian grimaced at the idea, "It'll take too much time."

"Might worth a shot."

At this, Sebastian sighed, "Fine, but I'll go with Wilkins as well if you don't mind."

"Sebastian and Sebastian," Ciel smirked, "Of course, I wouldn't mind."

Sebastian rolled his eyes and sighed again. Sometimes Ciel's sense of amusement was beyond his understanding. He didn't understand the Sebastian-and-Sebastian thing that seemed to send Ciel on the verge of giggling, if the young man was still genuinely capable of doing so.

"I'll go to Miss Jenkins," said Maylene and they all turned to her in surprise. "Well, umm, I haven't helped out much yet, and I'm free, so…"

"Won't Miss Hopkins be upset if you are absent now, Maylene? She needs assistants for her new autumn collection, doesn't she?" asked Ciel.

At this Maylene smiled tiredly, "Well, she has a lot of models already. I'm not really needed."

"Being busty can be a bad thing, huh?" mused Bard, and Maylene glared dagger at him.

"That should do for Mr. Holmes, I suppose, but we still have Moriarty to worry about," said the old man as he turned another page in the folder. "We have the name of the manufacturer for the ammunition used in the kidnapping. It's illicit and made in Great Britain. We might be able to find something from that route."

"I'll take over," said Baldroy grinning; "Leave those bastards to me."

"Baldroy, language," warned Tanaka. The ex-soldier puffed a cloud of smoke in reply. The old man shook his head and returned to the conversation. By that time, Ciel was already deep in his own thought with his fingers laced in front of him under his chin. When he looked up again, his eyes glittered strangely as he stared at Maylene, who felt a flip of in her stomach.

"Maylene, you go to banker Wilkins. Finny, I want you on Ms. Jenkins. Bard, I'm counting on you on the arm trade. Sebastian, you'll stay here. We'll be dealing with more assassins. I can't risk you being out of reach for too long." The sudden change confused all but Sebastian and Tanaka who went from confused to amused in few seconds. Ciel didn't catch the fond look from the old man. He was explaining apologetically to Maylene, "I'm afraid your generous asset is needed there more than anywhere else."

She had told him once that a girl couldn't take too much. Well, it seemed there never was anything too much for Ciel. She smiled weakly and accepted her fate.

* * *

><p>Sally knew it would take days to get her message going round in the office; she didn't expect it to take a week, though. Luckily nothing happened during that week, and she could afford some delay. After all, it wasn't the bloody bracelet she was actually after.<p>

She got the message around that she lost a very valuable bracelet – not literally valuable, of course, but of sentimental value. She told people that it was her grandmother's. She couldn't afford to lose it, not for the world.

People had helped with all they could. They searched here and there or gave suggestions of where to look. Of course, she never found it in those places. She knew it was not there.

In the coffee room that day was when the news about the bracelet came to her. Aberline had found it, and he gave it to Emily, one of Sally's friends, to return it.

"Aberline, you say," she asked; "Where did he find it?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Emily; "Go ask the bloke yourself. He's in his office."

Sally nodded and rushed from the coffee room with the bracelet in her hand. She needed to talk to Aberline. She needed to confirm it.

The DI was indeed in his office looking agitated as he typed his email. The knock on his door set his body leaping off the chair. He closed the program, and swung around quickly. "Sally!" he sat back; "God, you scared me."

"Sorry," said Sergeant Donovan as she took liberty in stepping into the room; "I just want to say thank you for finding my bracelet. It was my grandma's favourite. I can't afford to lose it."

"What? Oh, yes. The bracelet," he muttered. He definitely looked worn out; "You're welcome, I guess."

Sally chuckled. "Well, you know, since you're the hero here, why don't we go out for dinner today. All on me," she said with a smile. But Aberline shook his head wildly.

"Sorry, Sally. Can't. Busy."

"Yeah, I can see that," she took the opportunity to look around the room. Some evidence boxes were on the other end of his table, but none of its content could be seen.

"Can you tell me where you found it? I really can't recall how I might have lost it."

"Oh. I found it in an evidence box. It probably had slipped off your wrist when you were putting things in," Aberline replied.

Sally mouthed an 'oh' and shrugged. "Well, I'll be careful next time. Lucky no one thought it was a piece of evidence."

"Yeah," Aberline replied, "I'll get back to work, if you'll excuse me."

"Sure," Sally said cheerfully. She strode to the door and paused. "By the way, my offer is still up."

Aberline turned to gave her a smile and thanks before she walked off, bracelet swinging in her hand. It wasn't actually from her grandmother, of course – the Freak would probably figure that out as soon as he saw it. Good thing Aberline was not that smart, or else she might never get to confirm that he was indeed the one assigned to Moriarty's case.

* * *

><p>TBC.<p>

**Author's Note: **There are quite a few minor characters from Black Butler popping up this chapter, namely Tanaka (no first name known, unfortunately), Maylene (more often refers to as Meirin), Finny, and Bard, also known as the Servants. Usually in the canon, they don't get involved in the actual cases at all. They are more like the backup team who only spring into action in case of emergency. But I love them too much to not write about them. Moreover, I do feel that the house of Phantomhive has always been a team, so I decide to up-play their role here a bit.

And I have Ciel call Tanaka 'Tanaka-san' to avoid having to make up his full name (which no one would recognize anyway) and also to express Ciel's respect for the old man and his homeland tradition. I hope this goes well with the context.


	9. Chapter 9: Creating the Circumstances

**Author's Note:** I wrote this more or less in one go, and I actually like it! (It doesn't even have a storyline, so don't ask me why). Hope you enjoy Finny's back story! I had wanted to put Maylene's back story here too, but it doesn't fit too well so I just leave it.

Unfortunately, Eiko-chan is really busy with school and a lot of things right now, so she hasn't beta-read this chapter yet. If anyone finds any error/typo in need of correction, please let me know. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Part 9: Creating the Circumstances<strong>

When he received the invitation letter, he was rather surprised. He was a banker. He didn't have much reputation outside the circle of friends of the same trade. Therefore, he wasn't expecting that he would be invited to the unconventional Nina Hopkins' private party, an exclusive fashion show to let the 'Nina Circle' catch a glimpse of her newest clothing collection. He wasn't one of those bon tons, obviously, so it made no sense that she would bother inviting him (how did she know about him anyway?). His first thought, of course, was that it was some practical joke. Nina Circle was known to consist of highly selected group of people from various occupations in the high society forming a group of elites among elites. Sebastian was hardly one of those. He knew this kind of invitation was sent to people outside the group from time to time. But him? That's hardly thinkable.

He was sure it was a joke until he received a phone call from a woman who claimed to be Nina Hopkins's secretary. She wanted to confirm whether he would be at the party or not. He said yes without really thinking. She, then, asked for his address for there would be a car sent to pick him up on that day. To be honest, he was blown away. He wasn't sure why he was getting this royal treatment all of a sudden, and being the man he was, he asked. The girl at the end of the line giggled a little as she answered, "I understand your anxiety, sir. I was blown away, too, once. But Miss Hopkins is generous. You can ask her personally later."

So there he was at the door of Nina Hopkins's mansion as the guests started to arrive. He recognized many of them; they were celebrities after all. Strangely, none of them seemed puzzled by his presence. They just nodded, grinned, and exchange pleasantries.

One thing for certain now, this was no practical joke.

The music was already playing inside with a band of young men and women. Champagne was going around. Lights in the grand hall where the party was held were changed to blue, giving a slightly eerie atmosphere. And there among many guests was Miss Nina Hopkins. Upon spotting him, she excused herself and walked to him with a bright smile.

"Dear!" she exclaimed with a French accent, grabbed him on the shoulder and kissed him on both cheeks, "My god. You're here at last. I was afraid you would run off. You look like a deer caught in headlight. Well, I'm not exactly surprised, you know. My people are not the most typical for all I know. Now, have you anything to drink, yet?"

"I have some champagne already. Thank you, Miss Hopkins," he replied.

"Oh, Nina, please," she patted his shoulder lovingly. "Now, I have to get that uncomfortable grin off your face. If I can't make this the night of your life, I'm not Nina Hopkins, aren't I?" she said, then whisked the liquid in her glass down her throat followed by a loud 'Ah!' "Now, let us have a seat. You want something to eat, dear? Sushi, maybe?"

"Sushi is good."

"Sushi, then. Hey! Someone get us a Sushi plate, please," she shouted above all the sound in the room and whisked Sebastian to a seat. The Sushi plate came not long afterward, and they finally settled down.

Sebastian started, "You know, Nina, I was meant to ask. I have no intention of being rude, but I'm curious as to why you invite me here. I don't think I have anything to be recognized in your circle."

"Oh dear, don't be so humble. Someone must have acknowledged you, haven't they? Else your name won't be put to my attention. Honestly, I'm not very familiar with the business and finance, but one of my friends is an accomplished businessman. He recommended you to me as you were the one who helped him started out his business. Does Funtom ring a bell?"

"I have helped a lot of small businesses in my early career. I'm afraid I don't recall."

"That's alright, dear. I don't think he remembers how you look like either," Nina laughed heartily; "The point is you made an impression on him, and he recommended that I add you to the circle for everyone's benefit. We have a lot of artists and entrepreneurs here, you see, but we are not knowledgeable in certain areas, if you know what I mean."

"Yes?" Sebastian replied reluctantly, "No, sorry. What do you mean, sir?"

"So, you're here to be my friend. And like good friends, we help each other when in need. Isn't that a way of doing business as well?"

"Well, that's true," he smirked. Now that Nina mentioned the intention of the meeting, he was more than comfortable. This felt more like his arena now that he knew what the Nina Circle was about. Nina introduced him to many people, many who were interested in the financial world. And soon he blended completely in. He was glad this was easier than he thought. He was actually enjoying himself.

He also got the name of the CEO of Funtom, Klaus Heinemann. He made it a personal mission to thank the man if they ever had a chance to meet.

"Oh, no. He's not very social, you see," said Nina when he asked whether he could set up a meeting with this generous owner; "He does come around from time to time, but there's no telling. Sometimes he's out on the Continent on business trips, conquering the world one child at a time."And Sebastian laughed at her remark.

Soon the light was dimmed and the spotlight directed their attention to the stage. A woman Sebastian recognized as Nina's secretary came out from the back and announced the exclusive fashion show of the fall season. People cheered but most loudly was Nina herself, making compliments at each of her models.

There were 'oh' there and 'ah' here as each dress came and went. He wasn't that interested, really, but went along with Nina's enthusiasm. Even as it were, he did recognize when the sound went up the loudest as a girl stepped out in a dashing bright red dress. Her busty figure set her apart from many other models. She was like Venus with a lot more curve, bright red velvety hair, and piercing brown eyes. As she walked down the stage, Nina jumped up to her feet and grabbed the beautiful ankle once it was grounded to the end of the catwalk. "Maylene, you are absolutely gorgeous tonight, Darling." she cooed, and the girl made a slightly uncomfortable smile. Soon she turned back, showing the elegant curve of her naked back and walked to the back of the stage.

Nina must have caught him staring because she was grinning knowingly at him once she returned to her seat. "She's something, isn't she? Absolutely my favourite. She has every asset a girl would love to have – so many materials to work with. I love putting a corset on her, you know, emphasizing her buxom breasts. Models these days are too skinny. It's like fitting a sack to a plank. THIS is what Nina Hopkins is about, the love for women's curves and showing it. You understand what I'm saying, don't you, dear?" she nudged and Sebastian replied with a grin.

The evening went on with music and a short show from a theatrical group, also in the Nina Circle. Sebastian found the show interesting, but he was not overenthusiastic about it. Numbers made more sense to him than art.

But he did notice a piece of art when he saw one, like the redhead girl – Nina's favourite model – as she walked in plain clothes into the crowd. The make-up was mostly gone by then, and she looked utterly innocent and lost in the company of the high-societies – very much like himself.

"Hello," he greeted with a grin as she looked around for a seat. He moved over to free up some space at the end of the sofa. "You looked fabulous up there."

The girl blushed and sat down. "Umm, thank you, mister…"

"Just Sebastian is fine."

He noticed that she startled a bit by his name. "Is there something wrong?" he asked.

"No, nothing. I just happen to know someone by that name," she answered sheepishly.

And that got him curious. "Oh, really? Who is he?"

"Just an acquaintance," she said. If his eyes didn't fail him, Sebastian was sure she was blushing deep red. So this Sebastian was her crush. But she just shook her head and brushed it off. "Anyway, please don't trouble yourself with me. Do enjoy the show."

Sebastian nodded and turned his gaze back to the stage, but by then he was more interested in the girl next to him than the play. She was quite a shy adorable creature, wearing a dress that flattened her curves rather than flattering it – a bit of a waste in his opinion. She was giving him glances, too, which was rather flattering, but she would shy away as soon as she saw him glancing back.

Might be a good past time, he licked his lips a little and watched the rest of the show.

"So, you are a model?" he struck up the conversation once the show was over and the light became brighter. Soft music was played in the background as the room started to fill with low rumbles of people talking in whispers.

"Occasionally," she replied, "I'm actually one of Miss Nina's assistants. I'm still not very far into my apprenticeship, though."

He raised an eyebrow in respond. "She must have used you a lot, hasn't she, as a model?" he remarked.

She smiled wearily. The waiter came by with the champagne and she took two, handing one to him.

"She said I have the perfect body," the girl replied; "I don't particularly mind being a model for her clothing, but I find being in the spotlight…"

"… intimidating?" the banker offered.

"Yes, quite so," she answered, sipping on her champagne to create a pause. "Mmm, by the way, what do you do, Sebastian?"

"Well, I am a manager at Shad Sanderson. I take care of trading. Do you know what they are about?"

She shook her head and let him talk. Curiosity and anticipation were in her eyes as she smiled and asked questions. He liked her giggles, he found. It was rather reserved but awfully sweet. He liked how she bashfully handed him another glass of champagne or timidly asked about his girlfriend. He told her he didn't have one, which was true. An estrange wife did not count as a girlfriend.

After a while, they started talking about more personal topics, like movies they liked and things from their childhood. Maylene seemed to have and endless fascination with him along with endless supply of champagne for his thirst. He started to lose count of the glasses he had as soon as she assured him that Nina's driver would take him home. He simply downed it one after another.

He didn't remember much how he got into the car. What he remembered most was Maylene's soft skin under his hand as he grabbed on her to steady himself and her kiss on his cheek as they said goodbye. He smiled. He was very much looking forward to the next party.

* * *

><p>It was over a week at the rehab, and all Jane could recall was misery. Her therapist told her it was anticipated. A side effect of heroin withdrawal, she said, like Jane wouldn't know it. Of course, she knew it, but she was too stupid at the age when she started taking it. She had tried more than once to stop, but it was hard, so damn hard. She was smart enough to take great care about the dose when she relapsed, though, because it was the overdose that killed people. She didn't know why she couldn't be as smart in withdrawing or staying clear from it in the first place. God, she wished she was. Like Sherlock. He was smart enough to listen to her when she was preaching him off heroin and stuck with cocaine instead. Cocaine was pretty good, less side-effects so to speak. But she was already in the deepest pit. Crawling out was going to be one hell of a journey.<p>

And it sucked, dear lord, it sucked so bad she wanted to die.

Well, just sometimes, usually when she was alone and her roommate was not around. All she could do was staring at the ceiling and being bored to death. So it was like this when Sherlock got bored. No wonder he turned to her for something to keep his mind of this unfathomable torture. She never understood him until then. He had always been strange. People came to drug for many reasons, but for keeping the mind occupied was new to Jane. He fascinated her with his weird tricks and his super-intelligence. He didn't seem like one who would turn to drug actually, but his company alone was sometimes worth giving a few grams for free. And he actually listened to her. He was the first.

Now he hated her. Oh Lord Almighty, of course he would hate her now that he found out that she had never practiced what she preached. It was like betraying, she guessed, like she had been keeping an ultimate secret from him all this time. He had turned to Jane often back then, taking her into confidence about many things especially when they were high. And to found that, all along, she had been…

What Sherlock would do in this kind of state, she wondered.

There was a knock on the door, a call to a group activity again. Jane climbed off her bed and into her slippers. When she opened the door, a young man was standing in front of it with a wary smile.

"They're calling," he said and led her down the hallway. She didn't really remember his name. What was it? Funny? Fury?

"Sorry, you are…?"

"Finnian," he replied, "call me Finny."

"Ah, right you're the one with the weirdest problem."

She knew she was being a bit rude – she had been cranky for hours already – but the young man just laughed. "Yeah, computer addiction sure is strange," he replied with good humour.

She raised an eyebrow, "so you think this whole program will help you?"

"I don't know," he replied, "They want to experiment and I need someone to help me. I guess it's alright."

Jane nodded absentmindedly as they approached the room for the group section. It was still beyond her how someone could become a junkie for something that you couldn't really put into your vein. But Finny's problem was extreme, she recalled. He mentioned the complete inability to focus on life, to form relationship, or even having friends.

She wondered sometimes if Sherlock was still like that somehow. He was unmanageable when he was in one of his moods, and even his pal (what's his name, again?) never found a way to help him. That dude was so against drug, but he'd call her to give Sherlock something on his own tab when Sherlock was beyond salvage.

But Sherlock looked okay when they met in Scotland Yard. He was irritated by her, but, well, who wasn't. Even Sherlock would find her reproachful one day, especially now that he was working for the coppers. Jim told her that the last time they chat before the whole fiasco.

And she thought she found a friend in Jim. Dammit!

"Are you alright?"Finny whispered. He was sitting next to her looking concerned. The boy, he was such a nice lad. He had been gaining color since he came here, not looking as pale as he was when he first arrived.

"Finny, please pay attention," interjected the therapist with a gentle voice.

"I'm sorry, but Jane doesn't look well," he replied with sincere concern and apology in his voice. Like she said, such a nice lad.

The therapist walked over to her and within a few steps from her chair gasped quietly. "Jane, you should have told us. How are you feeling?"

"Down," she replied.

"You should rest a bit, Honey. I'll call someone to bring you to the doctor just to be safe."

"I'll take her to the infirmary," Finny volunteered.

The therapist looked at him with concern. "You don't have to, dear. It should be one of the staffs."

"Well, I should have known since I was with her on the way here. Please. She'd need a friend."

There was something about friendship that the young man seemed to regard very highly, and Jane felt a bit bad for him. She didn't even think that much of him.

The therapist gave in at last and let him escorted her to the infirmary. The doctor there gave her a thorough check and said it was probably a side effect of the withdrawal again, and that she needed to be strong and cope with it. Hell, she knew that, and it never helped her before.

Finny was waiting for her on the way out and walked with her all the way up to her room. They were kind enough to let her rest and Finny was to be her company.

"I'm alright," she told him once they were in the room; "You should go back to the session."

"It's okay. I like it better here," he said as he sat down on the sofa, bouncing on it a bit. He was such a child sometimes. "I don't like people much anyway."

"Isn't it a part of your problem? Com addicts don't know how to socialize, I've heard."

"Well, that's partly true," he replied with a shy grin, "I've never like being with people. I'm always nervous that I'll say something rude or do something wrong and they'll think I'm a bad person."

"Oh darling, you are not," she interjected without even thinking. She knew how it felt. Her friends were judged like that, too. Once someone found out that they did drugs, they were automatically stupid and, you know, bad.

Finny gave her a shy smile again as he pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose to hide his eyes. "Thank you, Jane."

Jane looked at him for while. She didn't know when she came to think of him as endearing. He hadn't been here long, just a couple of days, and he had looked so lost and out of place. Well, he was a different kind of addict and she supposed this was not his usual crowd.

"Tell me your story," Jane said suddenly. She even surprised herself.

"Excuse me?" Finny asked like a proper gent.

"Well, since I'm your friend. You can tell me your story, you know. You miss a session because of me after all."

Finny mouthed an 'oh' and looked down to the floor. He seemed to be contemplating before he said, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Well, yeah," she replied.

"Like…you absolutely cannot tell anyone. This is… this is very crucial," he whispered, absolutely serious; "Not to the therapists. You can't say it wherever whenever to whomever."

"Yeah, I get it. What is it that is so important?" she asked, slightly irritated and impatient. When would Finny stop teasing her.

"You promise?" the young man asked again hopefully.

Jane sat up from her leisure position on the bed and looked straight at him, showing him that she meant business. "I promise. I swear to it."

Finny nodded then and cleared his throat before he proceeded, "Many years ago, I used to room with a very close friend. We are both computer geeks. We dropped out of school together because we hated classrooms and teachers and, you know, just whole thing about social and stuff. My family was so angry I had to move out. I was making a bit from helping people with technical problems online, so I have some saving and we decided to move in together so we can share the expense and started a little business."

"And it wasn't totally legal," he said with a sad smile. "I was too young and too stupid to know what we were playing with. Aside from the web-coding and stuffs, we wrote programs and modules to crack into websites and steal information for our clients. We didn't care what they were gonna do with it. We just liked the challenge. And people actually kept raising the price to commission us. I think we must have done quite a good job."

"Then a guy came about and commission us with a very high price," he paused, swallowing hard before he continued. "He said he wanted absolute discretion. The code, the algorithm we invented would belong solely to him. We didn't know the risk then. We were lured by how high he was paying for it. Of course, we would have to reinvent everything for him, but we loved the prospect of it. It was utterly challenging. We felt high just thinking about it."

"He asked us to move into his flat where he can watch us work. We did. It was a luxurious place with a room service. We didn't need to go out at all. We just needed to tell him what we wanted and he'd find it for us. Our expense was covered, every quid. We just kept doing our job and pocketed it."

"But along the way we slowly realized what we were doing. He wouldn't tell us in full at the start, but soon he needed to fill us in. He did so bit by bit. Our commission check got bigger and bigger with the secret but so was the stake. We realized then that if we ever let it out of that room, the majority of the World-Wide-Web would be defenceless against the monster we created."

"So we put in a lock on the program," he swallowed again, his voice started to crack. "The code would run as it supposed to, but the entire information it had stolen would be encrypted. We convinced him that it would be safer that way since no one would be able to know what he was up to. We also gave him a decryption program to unlock it once the data was stored. We didn't tell him then that it actually needed a third party to synchronize between the two and make the code work. We were going to use it for demonstration and lead him to believe that we finished the job and disappeared before he truly understood what we had done."

"But… but somehow, he figured it out. Maybe it was someone else, some sodding underground programmer that saw through our code and warned him. We almost got away, but he got hold of us and shoved us back into the room. He demanded that we gave him the third-party code, but it was not on our person. We knew well enough to upload it elsewhere. Someone got hold of it for him, but it needed our password to run. He asked us what it is. We wouldn't tell."

Tears were starting to fall down the young man's cheek. His voice was almost gone at that point, but he was still trying his best to continue. "So…so he shoved my friend on the floor and put a gun to his head," he gasped, "right in front of me. He asked me for the password or he'd shoot my friend. But my friend was telling me not to. He was screaming. He was in pain. But he told me he was okay, told me to be strong and don't…just don't tell."

It was then that Finny broke down into sobs and whines. He was trying his best to stop and be coherent again, but he couldn't. It was too much to think back, and he succumbed. Jane could feel it so keenly her tears, too, were falling. She quickly got into the sofa with him and held him close against her. Poor Finny. Poor, poor Finny.

"He was my best friend," he said, almost screaming over his own sobbing. "I can't betray him…You understand?...I can't… So I didn't tell…and that man shot him… in the head… in front of me…shot him dead."

"Oh, Darling," she whispered while pressing his head against her shoulder and caressing his shaking shoulders and back. She didn't care of how their position looked with her legs draping on his lap. She just knew that Finny needed her. He needed this.

"Sometimes, I wonder why I survived," he whispered into her neck when he finally got hold of himself. "Sometimes, I wonder if this all is just a dream, that I didn't really survive that day intact, that I was shot too, but I didn't die and I was just in coma…but that…that can't be right… he wouldn't shoot me 'cause he needed me to talk."

"Shhh…It's over now, Darling," she whispered soothingly into his ear. "You're alright now. You're a great friend. He's proud of you. I'm sure he is."

"Really?" the young man asked. He pushed back a little to look her in the eye. Dear lord, those sad blue eyes could have made her cry again. She tried her best to wipe those tears off his face. "I should have find a way for us both to live," he whispered, "I should have dragged the conversation a bit longer…until the coppers come and save us… but I didn't… I-"

"You didn't know, Honey. You couldn't have. You had done your best, your very best," she muttered, kissing his forehead all the while. His sobbing slowly came to a stop, but it was hard for her to fight back the tears in her own eyes.

They sat like that for a while, her half on his lap and him clinging to her like dear life. It was a strange experience. She hadn't gotten this close to anyone for a while, especially not one who would not take advantage of her. She felt like she was the one taking advantage of the poor young man who had opened his heart to her in search of a friend.

"Well, you're better off than me. You're trustworthy, while I…" she swallowed, "I've betrayed a friend."

He looked up at her in surprise. "How?" he asked.

"Well," she started, "I first met him when I was in college…"

* * *

><p>It was not like he actually intended to have this meeting. He hadn't got enough data to manipulate the circumstances to his wish. He just tried. He knew if he failed there would always be a second chance. The person would always come back as long as the game was still on.<p>

John was having a half-day shift and he would be done by one after a lunch with Sarah. John had asked for that one extra hour. And he, like a good flatmate, was willing to accommodate.

Despite that, he set out at the same time as before after reviewing a few cases he found to be connected to Moriarty and sent the information to his scattered acquaintances in England and the Continent. He took a quick look at the watch to assure himself there was enough time before dashing out to West End, particularly to the Willow's Cup.

There at one of the windows sat the figure of a young man, one eye hidden under a patch concealing what must have been a nasty scar. He knew by doing a research many years ago how it might look like. It must have been a powerful blow to damage the organ beyond repair. An accident, probably, since his captors didn't bother to blind the other. The patch was there to cover any sign of it as well as the unnerving blank stare from the lifeless eye.

The young man's mannerism in general was also like that patch, shielding him from what one might call the society. His cunningness would be that the rest of humanity did not know that he was not one of them. Not even John saw it. All they saw was a young man, melancholic and strong.

Sherlock Holmes saw a completely different person.

He ordered his usual, black with two sugars, and waited patiently. The young man was not aware of his presence yet. He did not know if that was simply a façade or not. Ciel was reading something that looked very much like a scientific textbook. He can't really tell from this distance what subject it might be. For school? Probably.

The consulting detective took his coffee from the barista, nodded a quiet thank you, and walked over to the young man's table but kept away from his line of sight.

"Good afternoon," greeted Sherlock. Ciel startled little before he looked up, and upon spotting Sherlock smiled back to the Detective's grin. Sherlock didn't bother to wait for invitation before he sat down, intentionally shielding them from the rest of the room.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock. What brings you here?" the young man asked.

"Picking John up, as usual," he answered; "Yourself?"

"I had a class this morning and got some homework to do, so I'm spending my time here over a nice cup of coffee."

"With _Psychology and Crime_. Sure is an interesting read."

At this, Ciel grinned. "You're not here just to pick John up, I believe?" he asked.

Touché, Sherlock thought smugly. "I'm actually here to talk to you."

"Oh," replied Ciel quietly. Surprised? Yes. But _completely_ surprised? Sherlock doubted that.

"John doesn't like it when we talk about your family. He thinks you still suffer from the murder."

"And you think I don't?" the young man asked, tilting his head a bit to the side.

"I think you still do," replied Sherlock as he looked intensely at Ciel, observing his every movement; "I simply don't think you want to be sheltered."

Ciel smiled a little as he rested one elbow on the table and placed his chin on the palm of his hand. "Then what _exactly_ do you think I want?"

It was a challenge, Sherlock could tell. He got the answer ready. "You want to chase down Moriarty, don't you?"

"What makes you think so?"

"You weren't surprised by my deduction," Sherlock replied. "You have anticipated it, in fact. You knew that was the only possible explanation. Then why did you ask? You didn't want to hear it. You want me to hear it. You want me to get into your head."

"Quite so," Ciel agreed quietly.

"Then the question is why? You obviously don't want my sympathy. What good would that do. You want something else from me," Sherlock, then, smirked triumphantly, "and that something else is Moriarty."

The young man's lips curved up as if he was about to laugh. "Marvellous," he muttered, "truly exceptional. You really are as good as you claim to be. You see through my moves."

"I'm still not sure about the next one," the detective replied. "John won't agree on me taking you on cases especially if Moriarty is involved. I cannot guarantee a quiet time with him for interrogation if we ever catch him alive."

"That I know," said Ciel with a sigh; "I'm just hoping to get some names from him. I don't think it was his doing alone. I want to know what he knows."

"You're convinced he has the intelligence?"

"Better than not trying," the young man replied.

"You might die," the detective warned darkly.

"As if life is that interesting, and I'll die eventually anyway," said Ciel sardonically with a smirk.

Sherlock had never thought he would smile so easily, not until he met John who had become the exception to his many rules. But exception didn't really need to be singular, he found. "Well, then. You know the risk."

"I absolutely do," replied the young man; "By the way, can I use your telly?"

* * *

><p>TBC.<p> 


	10. Chapter 10: And Then There Were Three

**A/N:** I must confess I barely had any idea of how the interaction between Sherlock, John, and Ciel should be like; I just write it as it comes. Please tell me what you think of it. :) This chapter's title is a tribute to my favorite from Agatha Christie _And Then There Were None_. Just couldn't resist it. :P

And thanks **warblersalina**so much for pointing out that Mandarin and Cantonese are not that different. If you have any suggestion on how to come up with a good way for Ciel to deduce Lau out of it, please let me know. I'll leave it as it is for now as I have zero idea at the moment.

Also thank you all for faving (is this even a word? :P) this story. It gives me a good kick to try to finish this chapter. You know what's a better kick? A REVIEW!

Also, this chapter is un-betaed. Let me know if you find anything amiss!

* * *

><p><strong>Part 10: And Then There Were Three<br>**

John had no idea how it happened.

He was greeted that afternoon by Sherlock _and_ Ciel who sat silently side by side in the waiting room. The three of them came back to Baker Street together with Ciel mentioning something about a broken telly. Before he knew it, Sherlock and Ciel were sitting in front of the telly, playing video game.

Apparently, it was a product Ciel had been consulted with. The company had finally finished the prototype and sent it to him for review. And Ciel gave them quite a startling string of commentary as he played along. It seemed that the entire game play and comments were record into a compact black box which served as a console. Protecting their assets, he was told. And Dear Lord, he thought Sherlock's complaint about the common place was bad.

"Four out of ten. Your puzzle is mildly entertaining, but can't you guys be original for once? Everyone who has played a decent amount of puzzle game can solve that in a minute."

"Someone who hasn't can solve it in a minute and fifteen," muttered Sherlock with a smirk as his finger twiddled over the controller with such ease that John swore his flatmate was secretly a gamer. Ciel gave Sherlock a grin in reply.

"Did you hear that? That's a good friend of mine and he doesn't play video games," he said in to the microphone with such clear mockery that made John cringed.

"I won't bother if video games are this boring," Sherlock added, but he still moved his character around most diligently.

"I won't either if it is in this sorry state," replied Ciel. "And what do you think of the multiplayer interface?" he asked.

"Disgustingly inadequate."

Ciel chuckled again. "I agree. If you intend for this game to be about teamwork, this _text box_ is not helping at all. How am I supposed to know my friend found something if I have to squint to read a sentence long of nonsensicality while running for my life? It doesn't even make sense. Human uses visual perception as the main cognitive function, so think of text as a visual not just a piece of information. Be _clever_ with it. Do get use to the world outside the code sometimes, shall we?" the young man paused with a heavy sigh, "For now, two out of ten. Really can't give you more than that."

"About right," the detective replied with a chuckle.

The sound from the telly and the two men went on for a bit longer until the level was done. Ciel quickly turned the black box off and complained not so quietly about having to go through another fifteen levels.

"Those lazybones," the young man muttered as he took off his microphone and rubbed his eyes; "Just because they don't want to code another thousand lines, they had to resort to something as stupid as a god-forbid text box!" He groaned loudly, "And they want a smasher. They're going to get smashed at this rate."

"I wouldn't bother if their collective intelligence declined to that level," remarked Sherlock.

At this, young man rolled his eyes and looked pointedly at the detective. "Not everyone can pick and choose, you know."

"Too bad then," Sherlock replied with a smile before he got up to his feet. "I'm up for a cup of tea, and maybe we'll go for Chinese this evening. What do you say, John?"

John was snapped back into the room then, bewildered. "Excuse me?"

And Sherlock sighed and did a subtle equivalent of an eye-roll. "I said we might go for Chinese this evening. I'm asking for your preference."

"Oh, right. Of course, sure," John replied, "And by _we_, you mean…" His eyes drifted to the young man who only smiled. And John rubbed the bridge of his nose intensely. "Since when did you two become pals?" he asked, not actually waiting for an answer.

"Not long," was Sherlock's reply. Then he continued to stare at John until the poor doctor realized that he was supposed to be the one making tea. He huffed but retreated to the kitchen anyway.

"You can make it yourself, you know," muttered John rather loudly.

"Yours is better," The detective replied before he took up his violin and started playing to pass the time. John didn't recognize the piece, but it was quite agreeable, so he wasn't going to complain.

"I'll help," said Ciel as he got to his feet and walked swiftly into the kitchen.

But John shook his head. "You're a guest. Go sit and relax," said the doctor as he put the kettle to boil.

Yet Ciel didn't leave. He looked down at the floor before asking quietly, "Is that what you think of me?"

John stared back. He felt a sharp pang on his inside as if something was wrenching. "I didn't mean that," he answered; "you're not _just_ a guest."

"Then let me help, John," said the young man, "please?"

Somehow, John could quite find the strength to object. He simply gestured to the cupboard. "You get the mugs and tea. And some biscuits, too, if you like."

At this Ciel smiled shyly, and John felt that indescribable knot in his stomach loosened. He smiled in return as the young man proceeded with his task, remembering to wash the mugs first. Given the state of their kitchen, that would be most advisable.

"So, I gather that you share a flat with Sebastian. How did that come about?" John asked after clearing his throat. He had been curious about it for a while but didn't get a chance to voice it. He had met Sebastian just once so far. He couldn't quite come up with a scenario that would lead a man so refined to work and live with a young college student.

Ciel was surprised by the question, but he remained rather composed albeit not altogether comfortable. "It was a long story," he replied quietly; "It wasn't actually me who asked him to stay with us- "

"Us?"

"Me and my godfather," the young man replied, "My godfather owns a small apartment building in London. He wanted to take me in after my family was gone, but he was too old to provide proper care for me alone. So he asked Sebastian to stay with us and babysit me." Ciel sighed, "I guess it was for the best. I really resented the idea of being sent to an orphanage. And Sebastian, well, Sebastian was willing and able."

"But why Sebastian?" John asked. It seemed more logical to him to bring in a female rather than another male for the duty.

At this question, Ciel moved uncomfortably. "Well," he started softly, "he saved my life for one. And he was having difficult time providing for himself while studying for a degree. My godfather thought it was a good arrangement."

It was then that John actually caught up with what Ciel was saying. "He was the one that rescued you."

The young man snorted. "You make him sound like a hero."

"But he is, isn't he?" the doctor replied with a grin, "To you at least."

Ciel rolled his eye rather comically and said, "You just destroyed my ideology of a hero, did you know that?"

John laughed and Ciel smiled. "Must be bloody hard living with just men," remarked the doctor.

There was a short silence before the young man answered, "Yes, I do miss my mother."

John shot him a look of both sympathy and surprised – he really didn't think Ciel was going to be this open about his feeling - but Ciel simply shrugged, "Guess you want to know."

Before John could reply, the kettle whistled and he scrambled to turn off the stove and poured the water. Among many sounds in the room at the time was a ring coming from the living room, and the sound violin stopped. The next thing he heard was Sherlock storming the flat. "Forget the tea, John. No time for that now, Lestrade got a case for us. It's urgent."

The doctor turned tiredly to the detective with a sigh, "Can't we at least have a quick sip?"

But Sherlock wasn't listening to him at all. The detective was already in his coat and wounding his scarf. John sighed again. He gave Ciel an apologetic look before dashing off for his own jacket and ran down the stairs to catch up with Sherlock on the pavement.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Scotland Yard," replied Sherlock, "No detail yet, but it sounds very interesting."

"Not another bomb?"

Sherlock turned slightly to the doctor, the corner of his lips quirked into something that was supposed to be reassuring. "No, it's not a bomb," he replied.

"Ah, good," nodded John and turned to look for a cab. It was then that he spotted someone just beside them, someone with a black eyepatch.

He looked at Ciel then looked at Sherlock. None of them were looking at him, so he protested loudly, "Sherlock!"

The detective was too busy flagging down a cab to actually listen to what John was trying to say. By that time John got his attention at all, a cab was already in front of them and Sherlock was ushering them – the three of them – into the car. John was trapped to the door next to the young man who acted as if it was normal to jump into a cab with a mad detective and run off to a potentially gruesome crime scene. Sherlock didn't make any comment on their additional party either. The detective just sat there looking out the window as if it was a normal trip to the Yard.

John sighed again. Obviously, no one was going to be talking if he wasn't. "You can't do this," he said to the young man.

But Ciel didn't falter. "I'm in all my seriousness, John. If you're going to warn me that it'll be dangerous, I assure you that Sherlock had done just that."

John's gaze instantly shifted to the detective in question. "And you're letting him in," it was more of an accusation than a question, because John really felt like yelling nasty things at Sherlock at the moment.

"I don't see why I shouldn't," replied the detective.

"You're letting a twenty-year-old college student tagging along on one of your gruesome and dangerous expedition, and you said you don't see why you shouldn't?"

"Then let me remind you that Ciel is very much capable of making his own decision, and he understands the risk perfectly. I don't see why if he wants to study the case firsthand that he shouldn't."

John turned again to Ciel. "Study?"

"My specialization is in psychopathology," said the young man with great calmness; "and a good portion of criminals are psychopaths."

"But, we don't know yet if this case involves a psychopath. We know nothing," John tried to reason.

But every reason seemed to go to a dead end as the young man eyed Sherlock and answered, "A good game is always welcomed."

Sherlock replied with a clear smirk. Ciel nodded and smirked back before settling back into the seat. John could tell that they were definitely onto something that they didn't let John fully into confidence. It hurt a little to think that he was left out of something that might be very important. But John knew too well to hope they'd talk – not Sherlock at least – so he sat back and proceeded with applying Sherlock method to this puzzle in hope that it might shed some light for him.

It took them quite some time before they reached Scotland Yard, but even with that amount of time, John couldn't figure anything out. He walked beside Sherlock, radiating pessimism about him in hope that his flatmate would notice his disapproval.

"This is a very bad idea, Sherlock," John muttered as they passed the reception. He remembered to smile at the brunette behind the counter he had met numerous times. She waved at him, and let the three of them passed.

By the time they reached the floor of Lestrade's office, they could see the multitude of things that was going on. People were walking about shoving evidence boxes and papers into one another's hands. Lestrade himself was in a conversation with Anderson and a ballistic specialist. It was Sally that came to greet them with "Who is that?"

She, of course, was referring to Ciel who had been tactfully quiet and consorting since they arrived.

Sherlock gave her his typical reply, "He's with me."

Sally grimaced at him, "You're not bringing another unauthorized person in, and, my god, he's a _kid_, Freak!"

"He's coming _with_ me," stressed Sherlock, not backing down.

Sally frowned and turned to John, "Can you try reason with him, please?"

"I have," John replied as he crossed his arms, being a bit defensive and upset, "I'm sorry, Sergeant."

Sally sighed heavily and turned back to Sherlock, "If you want to babysit, fine. But he's not going into crime scenes or anything like that, do you understand?"

"Yes," answered the detective in a whisper, "but Lestrade would be the one who has the authority to let or not let him in, not you. And I can assure you there are good reasons for him to be here."

Sally was about to protest again when finally Lestrade broke away from his colleagues and came to see what the commotion was about. It didn't take him long to spot the extra party. He was basically half the room away when he was shouting at them, "You're not bringing another friend in, Sherlock, and who is that?"

He barely finished his sentence when his step faltered and his eyes went wide in sudden and painful recognition. He was barely muttering the last word, "Ciel Phantomhive…"

Not John, not Sally, and not even Sherlock could see that turn of event. Only the young man was anywhere near composed and, if John might add, cold.

"Good evening, Sergeant. It has been a long time. No wait, you're a detective inspector now, aren't you?" said Ciel with an emotionless grin on his face, like a grin on a mask or a doll. He tilted his head, almost taunting, "Well, I guess that's for the best."

Sally was the first to actually move. "You know him, sir?" she turned to his superior and asked.

"Yes," was as much as Lestrade would answer; "I still have to talk to a few more people. You three go wait in my office. I'll be right there."

Sally's eyes went unnaturally wide at that point. "Three, sir? But-" she stuttered but Lestrade waved her off as he quickly crossed the room to another officer waiting for him. Sherlock took that opportunity to lead them to the office quickly.

"He was on your case as a sergeant," he muttered in his usually baritone once they were clear of the chaos. The young man shrugged before allowing himself into a chair.

"You didn't tell me you know him," added the detective.

"I don't actually know him. We just met in a couple of occasions a very long time ago," replied the young man disinterestedly.

He didn't elaborate nor did Sherlock had time to ask before Lestrade burst into his office looking all bristled and upset. He gave them a quick nod, meeting everyone's eyes in acknowledgement but lingered longer on Ciel who did not nod back. With a sigh, he went on with their business. "A murder," said the inspector; "Don't need you on that one, actually. It's something we found close to the crime scene that bothers us."

With that said, Lestrade reached under his desk and pulled out an evidence bag inside it was an empty honey jar half caked with mud and sand that Sherlock could quickly identified as most likely coming from the Thames. The inspector eyed Ciel again. The young man simply looked intensely at the jar but made no attempt to get up or move closer. Lestrade put on the latex gloves and opened the lid.

In it was a thumb.

The smell of blood, flesh and honey slowly filled the room. While John stood still in bewilderment, Sherlock moved closer, characterizing everything about it. The jar was quite dry and half of it rather clean. He put on the latex gloves and picked it up to examine the thumb inside.

"Where precisely did you find this?" asked the detective.

Lestrade quickly pulled up a map on his computer, "There," he pointed; "We were there on a call about a body. No thumb missing. He was swept up the bank. Estimated time of death is a week ago, but the water makes it difficult to tell exactly."

"Indeed," muttered Sherlock. He was still looking at the thumb. "This is definitely not related to that body." He narrowed his eyes and muttered, "What was the tide at the time?"

"High," replied the Inspector, "Why?"

The Detective didn't reply. He took of the gloves, turned dramatically and walked out of the room with a shout, "Come along!"

John looked between Sherlock and Lestrade before nodding to the DI and went off after his flatmate. Ciel had already risen by that time, but Lestrade stopped him.

"Ciel," called the DI. There was so much Lestrade wanted to say, but the only thing he managed was, "I'm sorry."

The young man turned. His cobalt blue eye was cold as ice as he gazed at the detective inspector and replied, "It's too late for that," before he left.

* * *

><p>That eye had always haunted him. Not just because of the bitterness or coldness, but for the one time that there were anger, frustration, and sadness. He had always found the eyepatch unsettling, and the thought of what was left underneath even more terrifying. The combination of both on a face of a preteen boy so pristine and innocent was the worst nightmare he would ever have.<p>

It was a year after the horrific murder of the boy's family and his miraculous rescue from what became a burning slaughter house. No progress was made on either case, and it was time for the officials to finally file it as cold-case.

He was still a sergeant back then and had moved on to other cases, but he was asked to be there when they finally had to hand back some personal belongings that was withheld as evidence for the past year, among them was a gold ring engraved with a delicate crest that no one recognized. Something had always bothered him about that ring, but it had already been identified by Angelina Durless – the sister of Rachel Phantomhive and a close friend of the family – to have belonged to her brother-in-law. Therefore, there was no reason to investigate it further. He never bothered.

He had felt sorry to have to keep that ring in the facility for a year before handing it back to the only survivor when its presence might have given some comfort for the boy who was struggling to regain his life. But when he set his eyes on the poor thing, he realized he was wrong. It wasn't a struggle; it had been a losing battle.

"I'm sorry to have to ask you to come," said the detective inspector in-charged sympathetically, but Ciel didn't reply. He didn't say a word of greeting when he came in. The poor boy was a bit taller, but still thin and pale as if he was a doll made of porcelain. It was his godfather, an elderly Japanese man, who was engaged in the conversation with them.

But the detective inspector insisted in giving the ring to the boy in person as it had belonged to his father. The Godfather protested but eventually gave in. It seemed so big and heavy in that small hand. But that hand held it firmly, clutching it even, like he never wanted to let it go again.

Without a thank you, without a gesture of gratitude, the boy looked the DI in the eye and grimaced, "You haven't done anything, have you?"

The DI was stunned at first. Then he smiled a little, saying he understood the boy's feeling and trying to explain the difficulties. The godfather coughed politely as he tried to end the meeting presently. Ciel just brushed both attempts at distraction aside. "You didn't even try," he said with cool leveled voice, but Lestrade could hear it shook slightly. He could see that the boy had tried to contain himself, but he was losing very, very fast. "You dismissed this as a cold-case right from the start. Stop pretending to me that you've cared ANYTHING about why my father and mother died."

His godfather had to hold him at this point. The boy was shaking, but his eye was fixed on the DI and his hand clutched tightly on the ring. It was probably the only time that Lestrade had seen any emotion or reaction on that small frame. Not even when boy recounted the detail of his own torture did he look so fragile… so small.

The godfather excused them both and ushered the boy gently along with him. But before they reached the door, Ciel turned his way and glared.

"Why didn't you do something about it?" he demanded, "You are much better than him. Why didn't you take the case!"

He didn't reply, didn't say a word as the boy was guided out the door by his guardian. When the door was closed, the DI spoke, "we have done all in our power. It is an impossible case." Lestrade had agreed.

He got promoted to detective inspector a year and a half later and, by that time, out-performed his superior that everyone had noticed. He didn't remember what Ciel had said about him being a better detective. He only remembered the accusation that he didn't do his best. He remembered that gold engraved ring in that small little hand.

TBC.

**A/N:** It's a small world, isn't it? I hadn't thought about Lestrade being on Ciel's case until, well, until I was writing this. I was surprised myself.


	11. Chapter 11: The Adventure of the Thumb

**A/N:** Unbetaed, not Brit-picked, and I don't own a thing.**  
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**Chapter 11: The Adventure of the Lonely Thumb**

The light was mostly gone by the time they arrived at the crime scene. Only police officers were still occupying the ground – a park on one side of the Thames. A sergeant there greeted Sherlock. It seemed that Lestrade had told them to expect a visitor.

"We already got the idea to who might be the murderer, Mr. Holmes," said the sergeant, "It's a rather trivial case, you don't actually need to-"

"Where was the thumb?" was the first thing Sherlock said. No greeting whatsoever.

The officer was taken aback a little, "Thumb?" He looked puzzled, before he realized what the detective was talking about. "It's about a meter up the bank from the body. In a jar, too. Boy, these gangsters-"

"Show me where it was," demanded Sherlock with his usual annoyed and uncaring countenance. The sergeant winced a little before turning and leading them to the site. He tried to chat up Sherlock a few more times but failed miserably since, by then, Sherlock was already focused on the case. He didn't care about anything else aside from the thumb and the circumstance it had been in when it was found. The sergeant could give little clue to that as he was not in the team that scout the area.

He let Sherlock examine the place freely, but kept an eye on John and very cautiously on Ciel.

"You must be Dr. Watson," he greeted John at last, "Detective Inspector Lestrade and Miss Donovan told me about you. I read your blog, too, you know."

"Yes, emm…why, that's a surprise," John replied with a polite smile. Honestly, it was not entirely unexpected.

"I've never seen Mr. Holmes do _that_, you know," said the officer, "I don't think he can do much about the thumb, though. It's a complete mystery. A dead end."

Somehow, John felt offended by the comment. "Well, shouldn't you at least let him try?" he asked, reflexively standing straighter and crossing his arms.

"Of course. The DI told me to, anyway," the man shrugged. It was then that Sherlock walked up to them, looking passionless as ever. But something in the gleam of his eyes told John that he found something on the bank that no one had seen.

"Got everything, sir?" asked the sergeant.

"Yes, thank you," replied Sherlock as he walked off, not caring to explain to the sergeant or his two companions who had been waiting quietly. He just led them away from the park and into the street.

"So was there something there?" asked John, trying to discern whether Sherlock was happy or stuck.

"Nothing much," replied the detective, "I just confirm my hypothesis."

John frowned. "You mean you already know what it's all about before we got here?" he asked in disbelief.

"I have some ideas. Now I'm certain where it's going," said Sherlock, looking over his shoulder. "You two will need energy. Let's grab some Chinese."

They went into a small noodle shop close by. The place was crowded with people who wanted quick bowls of warm soup before they headed back home. John, however, knew it was going to be a long night. He ordered a big plate. Ciel followed his lead with a smaller one. Only Sherlock was there without the food, just some more caffeine from a pot of green tea.

"So, what are we after?" asked John as he munched on his Chow Mein.

"The thumb owner, of course," said the detective nonchalantly. John choked on the noodle.

"You mean the person's still alive?" John asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He replied, "Honestly, John. People don't die because they lose a thumb."

"With infection and improper treatment, that's possible," said John sternly; "So you're certain he's still alive? He might be hacked to pieces already."

"John," Ciel warned and John shut his mouth just in time as a girl walked passed them.

The doctor cleared his throat with a "Sorry" before resumed to munching down more calories.

The young man stole a glance before resuming his plate as well, "I'm fine with nasty talks over meals, but you might want to keep your voice down a bit."

"He's not dead, John," murmured Sherlock.

"Why?" asked John; "Someone who put a thumb in a jar might be interested in putting other things into other jars, too. Sounds almost like you, actually."

Sherlock let a small smirk come through before he resumed to his usual self. "I have an impression that you think whoever put it in a jar is a psycho-exhibitionist."

John nodded, but Ciel objected, "If he or she really is a psycho-exhibitionist, John, it would have been bolder. We'd probably have a full exhibition rather than just a thumb."

"My thought precisely," Sherlock added;"This is a call for attention from a reluctant accomplice of the captor. Most likely a female. She left the jar in a public space so someone would find it and call the police. It would go into the news due to the sensational nature of it, and they would have heard."

"And flee," muttered Ciel. He swallowed his last bite and slammed the chopstick down a bit too forcefully, a bit too angrily. "Where do we start, then?" he asked.

"The garbage," replied the detective.

* * *

><p>They were out on the street in fifteen minutes, scouting every dump sites and backstreets near the park. John found himself literally ankle-deep in garbage at one point while following Sherlock who was more focused on the window above than whatever at his feet.<p>

The dump sites were the places Ciel wouldn't follow them in, not for the life of him. He would stand further away with a frown of disgust and wonder as he watched Sherlock dived into the site without ado. Nevertheless, the young man would always have a thumb on his fancy phone to mark the place down if Sherlock told him to.

"I still don't see why you think the garbage dump has anything to do with the room we're looking for," said Ciel after their third time venturing into such a place, voicing John's own curiosity which the doctor didn't feel like asking, yet.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder with raised eyebrows. "I thought you follow," he stated with a mild surprise which seemed to irritate the young man more than he would admit.

"I understand up to the part that the jar was from garbage, obviously, but that said nothing of the room or the building. You were looking up to the windows right above the sites, so, logically, I would think you think that it had fallen down from a window which is just one of the possible scenarios," clarified Ciel.

"What other do you think there is?" asked the detective, and John thought he heard amusement.

"Well, there is a possibility that the jar came directly from the flat that the person was held in. Whatever caused the thumb to be cut off might as well happen in the flat and the thumb was sneaked out later."

Sherlock seemed to mull over the idea for a few seconds with a faint 'hmmm' before he spoke, "Possible, but less probable."

Ciel frowned.

"If the thumb was cut within the room, it wouldn't have dropped far from the captor who, by all mean, wishes to keep his kidnapping a secret. He would rid that thumb as soon as possible but without the actual need to hurry. Therefore, he would finish up whatever he was doing before flushing the thumb down the toilet."

This time, it was John's turn to frown. "Why a toilet?" he asked.

"Most efficient way to get rid of a thing of that size without possible discovery. His accomplice wouldn't have a chance to get to the thumb in that case."

"Maybe she was able to snatch it without him knowing?" John offered, and Ciel looked at him expectantly.

"She had to be quite lucky. She would need an excuse to be out long enough to reach the park. He would have discovered her intention and the thumb would have been retrieved very quickly."

"Okay," muttered John as he licked his lips, "so from your line of logic, what most likely happened was the thumb had fallen out of a window."

"With great risk of being discovered and the task at hand, he would have told her to go down and get the thumb before anyone found it. That was when she thought up the plan. She put it in a jar found in the dump site and hurried off to the park. She would have the excuse to be out for a considerable period of time."

"But she would be back without a thumb," Ciel interjected, "Wouldn't that draw suspicion to her as well?"

"Might have, but she need to risk it. Possible excuses are abundant."

"Yeah, I can see that," said John, "but, Sherlock, there are still tens of flat above dump sites around here. How do you know which one might be it?"

The detective's reply was "I'll know."

The doctor exchanged a look with Ciel. They said nothing.

* * *

><p>It didn't take that long to find the flat, John was quite surprised when he saw his friend grinned at the drain pipe running down the wall next to a fire escape. He looked up, scanning the length of the pipe, before his eyes spot something on the second floor. "There they are," he whispered. John saw nothing.<p>

"What?" asked the doctor.

"Don't you see the cut on the drain pipe?" he said excitedly, pointing to the second floor, trying to show them the said cut in the dim light of an back alley. John could barely make out a dark gash among other shadows.

"That's it?" he asked.

"That's all we need for now," replied the detective as he signaled Ciel to mark the location down and retreated from the alley. "Now we need the police. We won't get that standing in a backstreet."

"They are not going to make a move just because of a gash on the drain pipe," muttered Ciel; "We need convincing evidence that there has been a kidnapping going on."

"Of course," Sherlock agreed with one quick look to the young man; "You'll get me that evidence."

John Watson would be lying if he said he wasn't furious. "Ciel is _not_ going into that place," he hollered; "I won't allow that."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "If they recognize us, they'll be alarmed," said the detective calmly.

John bristled. "I don't care. Ciel is not going into the den of a psycho-kidnapper who just cut a thumb out of his captive."

"John, you're making a scene."

"Yeah? You know how to stop me."

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "We don't have time for this."

"This is a bad idea." The doctor turned to the young man and punctured his point. "I'm not letting you in there, not for the life of me."

Ciel nodded in acceptance and John felt a bit more relaxed, just a bit, before he realized that the young man was not actually looking at him, but at his flatmate who stood just behind him in the same line of sight. That realization, however, came a second too late as the young man started to run. John automatically followed but Sherlock pushed him back. The doctor stood dazed for a moment before he tried again to push through, but his flatmate pushed him back again, this time enough to shove John to the ground. John looked at him, but there was no explanation. Sherlock was simply looking down at him with not a tad bit of emotion. That only elicited anger from John.

"I can't believe it," the doctor muttered between his teeth. "You just let him go off like that," he stood up, "him of all people. You- HOW COULD YOU!"

"I said before that someone might recognize us," muttered Sherlock, "Now play along."

Before John could understand what was going on, Sherlock punched him in the face.

* * *

><p>Ciel ran with all he could to the front door of the apartment building flustered, panting and terrified. He took the quick glance at the intercom buttons before he pushed 'Office'.<p>

A male voice answered him, "Yes?"

"Please, can you let me in?" He pant, "Please, I need a moment," he gave a quick glance over his shoulder, "Someone's after me. I need a place to hide. Quickly. Please."

A large man in security uniform came to the door just a moment later. Upon seeing how flushed and distress the young man at the glass door was, he buzzed him into the common area.

"Thank you," said Ciel. "I'm sorry. It's…it's a stupid fight, but I need a place to hide or he'll kill me."

At that point the security was concerned enough to suggested calling the police. Ciel shook his head. "Please, don't. He's just mad; he'll calm down. If you call the police he'll be after my head for sure."

The security looked unimpressed but seemed to get the idea. "Your boyfriend?" he asked.

Ciel managed to look embarrassed and nodded slightly.

But it worked better than he had hoped. While the security sure thought this was a hassle, he didn't force Ciel out the door. Instead, he took him to a small office down the hallway so he could keep an eye on him. Ciel asked for half an hour. The man quietly agreed.

The young man was given a seat on one side of the room. The security resumed his place at the desk in front of a dozen of monitors. With his head turned towards the wall away, Ciel could openly observe the room as he wished. He spent a few minutes watching the display from over the security's shoulder. There were only monitors for building doors and elevator. He then turned to a floor plans on one wall. There was clearly stairs inside the building.

It was ten minutes in before Ciel told the security he would be stepping out to make a phone call to his friend, complaining about lack of signal inside the room. He nodded, busily filling out something in front of him.

Ciel slipped out of the room that way. In all appearance, he was calling his friend to pick him up in half an hour so he would have someone to help him handle his vicious boyfriend. In reality, he was calling Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>"Brilliant. Now try to get the room number," murmured Sherlock into his phone while wiping his bruised lips. John was a good fighter alright. They were convincing enough to have people shouting for police, but, of course, they ran off before the officers actually arrived. John was also with bruises – Sherlock didn't actually back down just because it was for show. But the doctor had taken much more than this. Bruises didn't bother him at all.<p>

After exchanging a few more words, Sherlock hang up and rested his back against the wall. The fight had drained them both considerably.

"God, I need more exercise," muttered John, breaking the silence in the backstreet they are standing in. "So what are we doing now?"

"We wait," Sherlock replied, "We'll give him twenty minutes before we pick him up."

"And you said we aren't supposed to show up there."

"Not if we are after something else."

John frowned, "Excuse me. What are we doing again?"

"Ciel just made up a story that you are his boyfriend in need of anger management and completely mad at him. I can easily pretend that I've been working on your case."

"Is that what the fight is for?" asked John, bemused; "You…when did you two agree on this."

"It wasn't agreed prior to this, John. I simply suspect that it is something he would attempt seeing how he sprinted away from you. Us fighting would make it more believable. We simply put the plan together along the way."

"Wow," uttered John weakly, "You two would make a great team."

At this, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned to John, "What do you mean?"

"I mean the way you seem to understand each other," John replied rather brightly but his posture faltered… very slightly, "He's a very bright kid. He'll go far."

They stood in silence for a few moments long enough for John to feel like an idiot saying what he had said. Why was he insecure anyway? It was not like this was _his_ life. This was Sherlock's adventure; he just tagged along, being a walking talking skull Sherlock could blast his genius at and that was all.

He didn't notice Sherlock moved into his personal space until the detective was almost breathing down his neck. He jumped a bit as his head shot up, seeing something pensive in Sherlock's eyes.

"John," he began, "I think you need to know that your company is invaluable to me. While I agree that Ciel is a smart person and can be trained to be fine detective and colleague, he cannot be trained to replace you. Your combat skill and medical knowledge is far more essential than another jabbering head."

John found his month ajar by the end of the little speech. He willed himself to shut it. "Why, that's…" flattering? He wasn't sure what he should say. He did feel a bit flattered, just a tiny bit. "And jabbering head? Didn't know you are the type to make fun at yourself."

John was sure he saw an upturn of Sherlock's mouth. "I didn't say whose head is jabbering, John. And I think that was hardly funny."

The doctor chuckled.

They stood there in comfortable silence afterward, and John wondered what Ciel was up to.

* * *

><p>It was easier than he thought getting up to the second floor without anyone noticing. The security was at the door looking out after hearing about a fight in a street nearby. And it was not like he was away for long. He got up there, paced quietly through the hallway to where he was sure was the room, remembered the number, and got back down.<p>

He spent the next ten or fifteen minutes acting a distressed young man just had a fight with his lover. Then Sherlock called, and he just needed to act a devastated client in front of the security.

They were out of the area in ten minutes to join John at another location.

"You little rascal," muttered John exasperatedly and fondly upon seeing them, "if you ever do that again."

"We're clear now, John. That speech is unnecessary, don't you think?" said Ciel with a teasing smile. His eye was still a bit red from the attempt to look frightened and stressed out. He, then, turned to Sherlock, "And it's Lysander Stark on the nameplate. His flat on the second floor has three bedrooms. Should be all facing the backstreet by the look of the plan."

There was a strange glint in Sherlock eyes the moment the name was spoken. John had never seen that glint before. "Tell me everything," said the detective.

They sat down at the coffee shop a moment later and Ciel told them everything he saw in that half an hour inside the building, describing possible partitioning and floor plans he had seen in the office. How he was certain of the flat number and the name of its occupant. They even looked up the internet to check for advertisement on the building.

It was strange for John to see Sherlock so focused, not that he typically wasn't. He was quizzing every detail and reasoning Ciel presented with no sign of contempt. He was seriously assessing the young man, and John swooned a little knowing that his young friend had earned respect from one of the most proud person in Britain. How he wished he could elicit that kind of respect from Sherlock sometimes.

After the intense session which John spent mostly sipping a cup of coffee, his friends sighed in exhaustion. The amount of mental capacity involved must have been immense.

"If I were to be introduced to you now, I would have thought you are a professional just by how observant and adroit you are with the whole operation," Sherlock murmured.

It seemed to startle Ciel a bit, just a bit, before he shook his head with a smile. "Just luck," he replied. "I simply took in what was already there. A professional would be able to elicit information deliberately."

Sherlock nodded sipping a bit on the cup of coffee on the table, which unfortunately belonged to John. The doctor eyed his flatmate before letting out a sigh.

"Great. So we got the name and the reason to suspect something's going on, but what do we do next?" asked the doctor.

"I would have suggested moving in, but it's a family complex, not bachelors. We can't really do it without being scrutinized," replied the young man.

"And it would be a big waste of time and resource as well," added Sherlock. John thought he could hear the gear in his flatmate's head turning. "We'll break in."

* * *

><p>They'd gone through the plan twice before they reached the same backstreet they had been in earlier. They managed to find a place behind dump site to sit and silently observe the light from the flat. Sherlock was radiating impatience during the hours that the light from the windows had been on. Still, he managed to sit still, his eyes occasionally darted to the room next to the drain pipe. Not a single gleam was ever seen through that window.<p>

During that time, John could make out an outline of a woman. He could only imagine what it must be like for her right now. What she might be thinking after placing the thumb in the park. What this was actually all about. Why the kidnapping. There was so many questions that John had to stop asking before he drove himself into frustration.

Hunching next to him was Ciel, for once allowing himself into close proximity with a garbage bin without complaint. He was hugging himself as it was a rather cool night. John could smell rain in the air.

It must have been hours of staking out in the backstreet before the light finally went off. Sherlock looked at his watch and waited, still. They agreed to give it an hour before breaking in.

When the time came, they didn't even have to speak. Sherlock turned to them and gave a curt nod before he got up from behind the dump bin and walked to the building. The fire escape was up, but Sherlock was able to get it down surprisingly noiselessly in no time. John followed him in a heartbeat, climbing the ladder just behind the Detective.

He wasn't actually quite prepared for Sherlock to bring out a glass-cutter, complete with suction cups, and started working on the window oh-so quietly. Before John could ponder on how his flatmate managed to get such equipment, the piece of glass was pulled out, and Sherlock quietly opened the window to let them in. John turned to Ciel one last time and with a curt nod disappeared into the flat.

Ciel looked at his watch then. The plan was to give Sherlock fifteen minutes to investigate the inside, probably located the captive and freed him, before Ciel called the police to report the break-in. The clock was set, but he had another call to make before that.

It didn't take long before his call was picked it up. No one ignored his call, not even if it was one in the morning.

"Aberline," he muttered, "I need you to do something for me."

* * *

><p>The room they came in was completely dark, and, god-blessed, unoccupied. It was not even a bedroom as floor plan made it out to be. Nobody would ever sleep in a room stink of ink with a machine sitting in the middle of it.<p>

Sherlock moved to open the curtain wider and let more light in. Their eyes were used to the dark by now thanks to hours of sitting in the shadow in a backstreet, but it was not enough to examine the detail of the machine. The Detective moved closer, avoiding stacks of papers as he passed. John, on the other hand, occupied himself with something he could see which was, unfortunately just ink cartridges and papers. They were strange kind of papers too from the feel at his fingertips, but oddly familiar. And they had loads of them, but for what…

It was then that realization came to John, he gasped and turned to Sherlock who, upon hearing the gasp, also turned to him and nodded. John swallowed and gestured for them to move on. They might start to grasp the true nature of this case, but there was still the person they must save; that was, if he was still alive to_ be_ saved.

Sherlock slowly and quietly turned the knob and pushed the door open. Nothing stirred and John was able to breathe a bit easier. They walked down the hall, passed the actually bedroom where they know the two occupants were in, and approached the other door. If Sherlock was right, the captive should be there. John would be able to assess his condition and decided whether they should alter the plan and called for help right then.

They stood on both side of the door as Sherlock gently pushed it open. They didn't hear a thing coming from the inside nor were they able to see anything through the small crack. Sherlock pushed it open a bit more and John could hear something shuffled, a strange shuffled, it sounded like…

John pushed the door back and rushed in. There was a small yelp but he managed to quiet it. The detective followed closely behind him and sat down in front of a disoriented man. He was cuffed to a heater with just a thin blanket to sleep on. His left thumb was clearly missing even under a bundle of bandages. It reeked of blood, limp and disinfectant. However, it didn't take a doctor to see that they man was suffering from high-fever and delusion caused by the infection of his wound.

"You're safe now," muttered Sherlock as he quickly scooted to the cuff and started working on it. John needed to hold the phone for him so his flatmate would have enough light to work with. The only thing he could do for the man, then, was talk to him.

"Victor Hatherley," muttered the man, still disoriented and scared, "You the police?"

"The police will be here very soon," assured John. Their fifteen minutes were almost up.

Victor, however, didn't seem to get it. "You not the police?"

"We work with the police, don't worry," said Sherlock. He managed to get the cuff off just in time when the hallway lit up. Victor shrieked and John cursed under his breath. Their perpetrator was awake.

A man rushed to the room in no time. In his hand was a club, but it was no match with John's gun and the man knew it. They stood in a stand-off for what felt like an hour before John take out his phone and, without taking his eyes off the perpetrator, pressed for 999.

It was then that the man dug and rushed off. John shoved the phone back into his pocket and sprinted right after. He followed the man to the print room, but the door shut right in John's face. The doctor let out a loud curse. He tried to open it, but it was locked. He kicked it opened in two tries and rushed in, but the man was gone, out the open window. John followed quickly.

As soon as his head popped out, droplets of waters hit his face. He let out another curse as he realized that the chase would be far more difficult with the rain pouring. He couldn't let that bastard escape, though.

"John!" he heard a shout. It was Ciel half way down the alley motioning him to follow. "This way!"

John basically slide down the ladder and started to sprint. So was Ciel. They were going as fast as they could, but John started to notice that he had no problem catching up with Ciel at all. Military training had made him more enduring in desert and London rainstorm. Soon he was able to see the figure of a man running in pyjama bottom. He sped up a bit more, trying to gain on him, but a loud splash had him turned. Ciel was down in the puddle groaning and cursing. Another footstep gained on them from behind. It was Sherlock who was still focus on getting the man. John's body was telling him to run ahead, but…

"Just go!" shouted Ciel; "I'll be fine. Go!"

John nodded. He turned and ran with all he had to catch up with his flatmate.

It didn't take long before they approached the main street, fortunately occupied with police who rushed out of their car and caught the man in the pyjama even before the perpetrator even realized who he was looking at. His less than adequate clothing would have brought him to attention anyhow, but it was good that someone stopped him before they actually have to chase him down the road of the forever busy London.

After subduing the man, one of the police turned to them. John realized then that their circumstance was as suspicious as the man himself.

"Alright gentlemen, can you tell me what's going on?" the cop asked.

John swallowed between his breathing, trying to remind himself that they needed to omit the break-in part. "He ran out of a flat through the window in a rush, so we decided to chase him down," answered the good Doctor. He gave them the description of the building. "You might want to check the flat," he added.

"We'll do that," replied the police; "And what were you two doing in the backstreet?"

The only thing in John's head, then, was 'Oh, Fuck'. How was he supposed to avoid mentioning the break-in now.

Suddenly, he felt a hand placed on his shoulder as he felt Sherlock pressed himself against John's side. His hand slowly, pointedly slid down his back to rest against his hip.

"I don't think that is your business, _gentlemen_," said Sherlock, accompanied by some eyebrows rising from the two coppers. The doctor coughed and then, in turn, wounded his arms around Sherlock's waist in mimicry to his flatmate's action. He flashed a nervous grin.

"He's impatient, you see," he said and left the rest to imagination.

The police seemed to have a wild one at that as their eyebrows disappeared into their hairlines. But they decided to focus on the subject at hand and called for backups to investigate the flat – just as planned. They asked for John's and Sherlock's name and contact information before letting them go.

By the time, the rush from the chase had somewhat wore off, and John slumped unceremoniously against the nearest wall. God, running in the rain was actually a bit harder than in the desert.

"John?" asked Sherlock, understandably concerned, but John gave him a grin. "I'm fine," he said; "I really need more exercise."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. He waited a moment to let John catch his breath before they headed back to get Ciel. But after a few steps, Sherlock's phone chimed. It was Ciel message saying that he was alright and that he had already headed home.

"I doubt he'll come with us again," said John; "This is rather rough for a first-timer."

Sherlock replied with a disagreeing humph. They turned to the street and tried to hail a cab for Baker Street.

TBC.

**A/N:** So, how do you like my take on "The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb"? I personally am not a fan of this particular story because I feel like it is a bit of a letdown, so I decide to turn it around. Like? Dislike? Please leave a comment. Thanks!


	12. Chapter 12: Common Practice

**A/N: **First of all, thank you, thank you, thank you for everybody who fav/alert this story. You are the people who keep me going. And special thanks to Almecestris for your kind comments. I'm extremely chuffed (to use the British slang) and happy you enjoy this. I didn't put this into the crossover section because at the time this story was first published there wasn't one and I sort of rebuild the entire Kuroshitsuji's universe to fit it in Sherlock's which I'm not sure the fans over there will like. (There's no catchphrase like "Yes, my lord" and "I'm simply one hell of a butler" because they are just so out of context. I have to substitute them for something that sounds more plausible.) But I'm definitely considering your suggestion since it is already there.

And again, sorry for the sparse update and any grammar eyesore. I've tried to edit this but might have missed some.

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><p><strong>Part 12: Common Practice <strong>

The perk of having a personal car and a personal driver was obvious when one was caked in mud from a backstreet and soaked through and through: you didn't need to wait for a cab to agree on a lift.

He wouldn't be able to stand long enough to hail a cab with a sprain ankle anyway. He cursed under his breath as he limped up the stairs to his flat. He needed a shower and a warm cup of tea – some biscuits would be nice, too.

Trailing behind him was Sebastian who looked slightly amused. "You should have let me carry you," he said.

The young man turned sharply and replied, "I'm capable of walking up the stairs on my own, _thank you_!"

The man just shook his head with an audible tut-tut and hopped up the steps like it was nothing. Ciel glared at him with open hostility but didn't breathe a word. He was daring Sebastian to make _that_ comment. He could run all possible insults through his head and find every possible way to retort. They had been playing this game with each other for too long that everything came to him as reflexively as breathing.

But Sebastian didn't say a word. He simply graced Ciel with his usual smile and opened the door to let the young man in as if he finally decided that silence was golden for this moment.

Ciel gave him a sideway glance before hobbling towards the bathroom, but not before Sebastian caught up him. "Would you need my assistance?" he asked.

The young man grabbed the door frame to steady himself and looked the older man in the eye. "Yes," he replied, "I want a set of clean night clothes with my dressing gown in the bathroom and my dirty clothes out of my sight before I finish the bath. Also, I want my flat clean of any trace of mud or water, and a cup of tea on top of that would be nice."

Without as much as a flinch, Sebastian straightened with his customary "As you wish" before he disappeared into Ciel's room. Satisfied with getting Sebastian off his back, the young man went on to strip and get ready for a good bath.

As good as his word, Sebastian got absolutely everything done by the time Ciel got out of the bathroom. The dirty traces were gone, not that any of it was on anything difficult to clean, but still. He never learnt how Sebastian managed a feat like that time and time again for the past ten years. Even the tea was timed to be ready exactly when Ciel was done.

He had known people calling this ability 'creepy'. He guessed he was too used to it to care.

"How is your foot?" asked the man as he placed the tea and biscuits on their coffee table. The gentle aroma of Camomile eased Ciel to relax. He limped his way to the couch and slumped on it, dragging his feet up on the footstool.

So Sebastian got that stool out as well. Good thinking.

He slowly realized that Sebastian didn't just think about the stool, he purposefully moved the couch so that Ciel was able to reach for his tea on the coffee table with his feet pointed to another couch in which Sebastian sat on, complete with cream and bandages.

Ciel felt the sudden rush of annoyance when he realized that Sebastian had everything thoroughly thought out yet again.

If the man had noticed the glare, he wasn't bothered. He simply took the cream and rubbed it gently on Ciel's swollen ankle, taking great care to not cause more pain than necessary. "I would have to remind you that your ankle is not in its best shape and you are not exactly athletic. Could you please be more careful next time?"

Ciel rolled his eyes under Sebastian scrutinizing gaze and drank his tea. "I slipped, that's all. It happens."

Now it was Sebastian's turn to roll his eyes. "You know very well that the very reason you slipped is because you have a weak joint here." He drove his point home by purposefully twisted Ciel's foot and the young man nearly yelped but was still dignified enough to swallow it. "You might not need a cane anymore," continued Sebastian as he massaged away the tension in the muscles that suddenly cramped, "but that does not mean it has completely healed."

It would never completely heal, Ciel knew. The feel and sight of having a heavy metal band on his ankle were still remarkably vivid, more vivid than the months spent with healing and rehabilitation, more vivid than the first moment he was able to walk on his own again. The pain never left him, not completely, like a ghost from a long forgotten nightmare.

Somehow, it was assuring.

Ciel was driven out of his thought with the feel of Sebastian hands on his calf, expertly kneading away the tension as the hand slowly crawled to his knee. It was relaxing. He could have let Sebastian just massage him to sleep, but there are boundaries Ciel would not cross and one of them was being manipulated by those hands.

"That's enough," said Ciel with the most commanding voice he could mustered at almost three in the morning. He was tired and sleepy. He had no interest in playing games at this moment. Sebastian released him after a few more rubs and faint ghostly touches of his fingers. Ciel commanded himself to not let out a sigh of disappointment. "I'll go to bed," he said, driven his point home by taking his feet down from the stool and stood up. His ankle felt much better, but he was not able to fully put his weight on his injured foot. Still, he didn't let it get in his way of getting to his bedroom on his own.

Sebastian seemed to sense his mood. He didn't make any comment or tried to help Ciel. He slipped into his professional persona as he informed his employer, "There are some businesses to finish before you head for school tomorrow. I'll wake you up at nine."

Ciel remembered thinking he wasn't up for games, but he couldn't help teasing back. "Something you can't handle?" he asked with an eyebrow lifted slightly.

Sebastian scowled at him with a subtle reduce of space between his eyebrows. Nevertheless, he kept his tone perfectly neutral. "Lau contacted me today about a case he needed your assistance. A man was found dead on the bank of the Thames."

"I've heard that one is trivial."

"That man was not supposed to be found."

A realization dawned on Ciel then, followed closely by annoyance. "I've told him before that I'm not responsible for his mistake," said the young man firmly; "If it is out, it is out."

"He knows that we still need him," reminded Sebastian; "We are currently not in the position of losing him."

Ciel nodded curtly. Of course, he realized that. Given the eyes and ears Lau had on the streets of London, he was too valuable a piece to let slip. Commissioner Randall would not be pleased, but if the move must be made, it must be made. If anything, it would put Ciel on even with Lau under the Code of Debt. He'd be able to mobilize Lau's people if Moriarty decided to plant a bomb in some random place in London again.

"Fine, I'll talk to Randall tomorrow," said the young man as he shut the door behind him.

* * *

><p>Apparently, Sebastian forgot to tell him that there wasn't just Randall he had to deal with.<p>

He ended up spending his breakfast on teleconference with the development team in Funtom who just had to run an idea through Ciel right then instead of waiting another two days when Sebastian could secure a time to meet him in person. It was too early in the morning and he had just barely six hours of sleep the night before. He couldn't be held responsible for slipping in a lot of colourful insults he usually tried to avoid for the sake of professionalism. Well, professionalism be damned; it was _their_ call after all.

Then he and Sebastian had to sit down to plan out timelines for current on-going projects, namely an exceptionally boring video game that Ciel had another 15 levels to go through. He could finish it up at home, of course, but that goes against the 'broken telly' story if Sherlock didn't see him with it for a couple more days. If anything, it would leave a more pronounce impression of Ciel's professional life aside from school. Ciel was too tired to argue with Sebastian about that.

Then it was time to call Randall. Apparently, Sebastian had already arranged for a teleconference with the Commissioner's PA the day before even before the issue came to Ciel's attention. The young man sighed inwardly, irritated to find that Sebastian had everything well-planned yet again. He felt like a pawn sometimes given how well Sebastian could gauge his reaction and went five steps ahead without even needing his input. But, of course, if he ever mentioned that, Sebastian would simply look at him pointedly and told Ciel that it was his job after all.

For today, Ciel had to let that slide without scheming against his perfect assistant just to remind Sebastian how unpredictable he could be at times. Randall's face came to view barely ten seconds after the call was put in, and the young man straightened himself a bit – his chin slightly higher than it normally would. He could see the Commissioner narrowing his eyes at him.

Commissioner Randall wasn't pleased with the news. He was doing an equivalent of a tantrum for the next five minutes, lecturing the young man on how their agreement did not cover a case like this. Ciel let him say what he pleased without as much as flinching; he knew better than to let Randall know he was equally frustrated with the situation. Emotional responds only undermined the ability to win a negotiation; he learnt that early on.

Upon gaining no reaction, the tantrum ceased and finally Ciel could go down to business of preventing the case from going into prosecution. It was a tricky manoeuvre, involving finding loopholes and bending rules which, luckily, Ciel was quite adept with. He had the pleasure of watching the commissioner fidgeted. The man was never comfortable with the way 'justice' was handled by the Phantomhives. Randall called it anarchistic, Ciel called it maverick.

They reached an agreement as they always did regardless of all the arguing and verbal slapping. Ciel thanked him and cut their connection. He turned to find Sebastian standing by his side, Ciel's phone in his hand.

"There was a message from Sherlock Holmes," he said flatly, "he mentioned something about your belongings left at his place and a meeting at two this afternoon."

Ciel had a class at half past one, but it didn't change his decision. "Drop me at the tube station. I am going to skip the afternoon class."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, "I don't think that is wise."

"I _said_ I am going to skip the afternoon class," repeated Ciel sternly; "now get my cane."

Sebastian sighed, but did so anyway.

* * *

><p>"Oh. Hi. You're early… Are you all right?"<p>

The concern was in the Doctor's voice when he saw the young man's cane. Ciel flashed a smile and nodded. "A sprained ankle, nothing serious," he replied while limping into 221B Baker Street without much difficulty. John simply eyed him, but said nothing as he led them up to the second floor at a pace adjusted for Ciel's lack of speed. It was somewhat infuriating, but the young man was not going to stop being good-nature around John Watson just yet.

"How are things? Did you find the thumb owner?" he asked.

"Yeah, we did," answered John as he opened the door and let Ciel into their living room where Sherlock was typing away on his computer.

Without diverting his attention from the screen, the detective informed him, "Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, has been captive for almost five days, two spent without his thumb. He's lucid enough for questioning now at the hospital."

Ciel nodded as he slumped on the couch. "Is that where we are going?"

"Yes. And Scotland Yard. John and I were contacted about last night."

"It's going to be a disaster," John sighed before taking a seat in front of the young man. "How are we going to avoid saying we broke in now that he probably said we did?"

"We don't have to. We'll just tell Lestrade everything. The counterfeit money is enough to get the spotlight off us," replied Sherlock.

"Counterfeit money?" Ciel asked before his eye widened, "I see. That's how it was, wasn't it?"

"Wasn't it what?" John asked, looking at Ciel curiously.

"Victor Hatherley was the hydraulic engineer called in for the printing machine," said Ciel, "He threatened to expose them, so they…. Why would they keep him there when they could just get rid of him?"

John was more startled by the suggestion than he would like to admit. Not that it was unthinkable, but the way Ciel made the remark offhandedly disturbed John. It took him a moment to realize it was not the first time he was troubled by a comment of this nature; he just got too used to Sherlock to think too much of it. There never was any malicious intent.

Boy, they were more alike than he first thought.

"No, they couldn't, and this is probably why," replied Sherlock as he handed the young man his laptop. Ciel took a quick glance at it.

"A hydraulic engineer murdered six months ago," the young man read with a smile before he handed the computer back. "So that was the first incident. Six months later, it broke. They found another hydraulic engineer to do the repair. When he wouldn't comply, they have no other choice but to try and make him. They were going to kill him anyway, but they would rather have just one body than two."

"Precisely," replied the detective with a smirk on his face.

"But why cut his thumb?"

"Accident from a struggle," said Sherlock; "Clearly, he was in the machine room being forced to do the repair, but then an opportunity arose when he realized the room was right at the fire escape. We know how that escapade ended."

John nodded then asked, "So we know the story. Why do we need to meet him?"

Sherlock's answer was "It is merely a hypothesis until we can confirm it. And you'd just want to."

"Right, that make sense," replied John, half lied. He can understand Sherlock wanting to confirm his theory, but why was him any factor in that?

Ciel, however, just gave him a smile after seeing him puzzled. Then the young man asked, "So, do you mind if I borrow your telly again?"

* * *

><p>Baldroy looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand for probably the fifth time in the past minute. He wasn't sure, really, if this really was his assignment. The first paragraph pretty much told him that this was probably a mistake. Bard could grill some thugs, no problem, but a posh public-school chap? He looked at the clock for about the third time – it was half-past-three in the afternoon – and asked, "You want me to leave <em>now<em>?"

Sebastian simply looked up from the laptop on his desk and stare from over his glasses (the one Bard swore Sebastian wore them because they looked _good_ on him; the guy's eyesight was perfect, goddamn!) It was enough for a 'yes'.

Bard scratched his neck for a moment, itching for the cigarette in his pocket like nobody's business. The address scribbled was clearly Norfolk, not Norfolk something-something London but _Norfolk_. "And you aren't even coming. Jesus, man, do you know how long it takes to get to Norfolk and back on public transit?"

"You are not driving my car," Sebastian replied, his eyes were back on the computer probably answering hundreds of emails coming through Ciel's account.

Yes, of course, why would Sebastian even let Bard touch his precious S80! It was for the young master, not them. Bard looked at the name and address again, unsure how to start. "How am I supposed to talk to this Trevor dude looking like I just step out of Afghanistan after four hours on the goddamn road in the goddamn evening? He'll turn me to the police, that's what."

"Stop whining and get going, and _don't _take your gun" replied Sebastian, still not looking at Bard and definitely had missed how exasperated the ex-soldier looked.

"C'mon, Sebastian, you usually do this chitchat, not me," he said with a sigh. "I can do chitchatting when there are guns or beer – preferably not both at once – not over wine and steak and stuff like that, you know."

"Then learn how to do it," answered Sebastian, finally looking up for once, but Bard would probably feel better if he didn't. An annoyed Sebastian was something everyone even Maylene who was unhealthily obsessed with the man wanted to avoid. Bard was usually exceptional at annoying the guy, too.

So Bard tried to take the calm approach. "Look, mate," he paused, "Since this paper is coming from you and not the Old Man, I'm sure Tanaka-san didn't think of me as his first choice. And you're obviously bored to hell with whatever mundanity is on that shit." He gestured the compute and continued, "I'm not trying to get out of this, okay? I just know you don't really trust me to do this – you never – but you're pushing me when you could have done it in like five hours top. Your style. I just don't get why."

"My order is to be available in case of emergency, remember?" Sebastian answered, going back to his computer again.

Bard sighed. "The Young Master will be fine for half a day. He's busy with that Sherlock dude, isn't he?"

"Yes," Sebastian replied but said no further. Bard shrugged and decided to go upstairs to his room to pack for the night. He definitely would not be back until at least tomorrow.

* * *

><p>TBC.<p>

**A/N:** I've been thinking about what car suits Sebastian the most. Volvo was my friend's answer to my impromptu question and I was sold on an image of a (sleek) black S80. What do you think? Should Sebastian drive something else instead?


	13. Chapter 13: A Crack in the Mask

**A/N**: Finally, another chapter!

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><p><strong>Part 13: A Crack in the Mask<strong>

It must have been ten minutes since Sherlock walked into the room to interview the girl, ten darn minutes that there was nothing but Sherlock's voice asking questions, probing, luring, threatening, and tempting her to speak. They knew she knew something, but no one was able to get her to speak including the two detective inspectors who were on the case.

Lestrade was not exactly on the case; he simply offered a joint investigation with Aberline who was assigned to the break-in since Lestrade was the first to discover the thumb. He also acted as the mediator for Sherlock who could have been pressed charge for breaking in. That led to another uncomfortable moment with Ciel bringing up his own case in which his rescuer was never pressed charge for trespassing. The two DIs agreed to look into the matter at the later date just to avoid mentioning anything related to Ciel again.

John hated bringing Ciel along for this very reason. Everyone in the Yard who had been around long enough seemed to recognize him by sight and react rather negatively to his presence. Even Aberline who had been rather chummy with Sherlock and John – which surprised John inexplicably given that Sherlock had a certain reputation he ferociously kept – had been rather uneasy around Ciel. It seemed almost an unconscious reaction because overall Aberline was a good man – righteous, rational, and unassuming. That was probably the reason Sherlock seemed to be tolerating him very well aside from the fact that he openly expressed his amazement every time the detective showed off his skill. John couldn't help wondering if he had been giving Sherlock that kind of sparkling doe eyes all this time. Aberline had John did a discreet facepalm when he realized he probably did. No wonder everyone was looking at him funny.

It might have been a good thing that they became occupied with the case very quickly that Ciel's presence was almost forgotten. It didn't, however, prevent Ciel from detaching himself from the rest. He spoke when he deemed necessary but otherwise only observing from the far end of the room like now. The young man's eye was transfixed on the girl with scorching intensity. John knew they were coming to a dead end. For whatever reason, she was afraid to even flinch in front of Sherlock.

At the mark of fifteen minutes, Sherlock finally stood up and glided out of the room with smoldering fierceness of an angry beast. John got up and stepped forward to his friend immediately, trying to convey sympathy as much as he could without saying anything.

"She knows about me," muttered Sherlock between his grinding teeth; "she had been warned."

The accusation was heavy in every word, but John doubted that anyone beside him knew what it truly meant. This was somehow related to Moriarty, a counterfeiting network fit for a king.

Then Ciel spoke, "May I?"

They must have given him such incredulous looks that the young man turned defensive. "My specialty is in psychopaths if I haven't pointed that out yet. I have done some interviews with inmates as part of my research project." He paused before responding to their silence, "Give me ten minutes."

"I would like to, but she is not an inmate, yet," interjected Lestrade; "You are not trained for this. At least I have Sherlock gone through the basics before we ever let him in."

"And does your training get us anywhere yet, Detective Inspector?" Ciel snapped back, "She is clearly familiar with these tactics. All I'm asking is a try to get her to open up. Nothing has to go into the record."

The last part was spoken to Aberline who nodded grimly. To everyone's surprise, he agreed. "You'll have ten minutes," he said while shutting every recording device down; "We'll be watching."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," said the young man before he stood up and limped into room.

John, of course, was nervous, maybe far more nervous than Ciel was at the moment. He couldn't really tell because Ciel, like Sherlock, only showed his competency not his weaknesses. They were neglected, if not tolerated, like his sprained ankle barely capable of keeping him standing for long without a cane.

That very cane was put aside as the young man sat down on the chair opposite of the tired and confused woman with his back to the observational windows. "We are alone now," was the first thing Ciel said as he leant back against the chair; "All recording devices are off. None of this will be or can be used in court. This session is to be treated as if it never happened."

This confused the woman even more. She looked up to the windows knowing they would see her. Realizing that she could not get a reaction from them, she turned back to Ciel who sat there patiently waiting for her amazement to wane.

"You don't believe me?" he asked.

"No, I…" she was at a loss for words, "No, I can't tell you anything. I know nothing, believe me."

"No, you know too much," replied Ciel; "I saw how you avoid Mr. Sherlock Holmes back there. Bit overkill for someone who knows nothing, don't you think? You didn't even move for fifteen minutes. You have so much to hide and I know it. He knows it. We know it."

John could almost hear her sharp inhale, not surprisingly. Ciel had just unmasked the face of a fearless predator. He placed his grip on her right from the start.

Instead of tightened the grip, he loosened it. "I'm not with the Yard, just in case you haven't figured that one out, yet. I'm here on my own investigation."

"You're a…." she gave him an once-over, "a detective? You?"

He sighed, "I'm a college student. I just happen to be involved with the person who runs your network."

She almost jumped off her seat in shear fright – another evidence that she indeed had known enough to fear the shadow. John couldn't see what kind of face Ciel was making because the woman suddenly stopped, looking both curious and frightened at the same time. She simply took a steady step backward. "No," she muttered, "You're bluffing me."

"I'm actually fonder of chess than of poker, so, no, I am not bluffing," Ciel replied, "I am after a man who knows enough to have warned you against him, who could send you into nonexistence faster than any officer could respond. The irony is you have never known him or met him, but he already has that deadly grip of fear on you. Nothing you say or do can ever be used against him. That's why there isn't a point of recording this or using it in court." He paused and let her blink, her head geared into overdrive at what he just said. He gestured the chair. "Sit down, please."

She obediently did so.

"Then why are you talking to me?" she asked, finally looking a bit relief; "If I'm nothing-" she shook her head, couldn't really complete the sentence. "I have no idea what you want from me."

"Tell me about the network. Tell me about the people in it," Ciel replied, "Among those people, there need to be a middle link. I need to know who that might be."

She shook her head again. "I have no idea," she said; "I only met them a couple of times. We are mostly just working by ourselves with the guys coming by now and then, but…"

"Who are these 'guys'?"

"Just brokers," she replied, "the middlemen. They came to take the product or bring us supplies, but that was all they did. They didn't know anything more than what their job requires."

"How about 'them'?" Ciel asked, "Why were they visiting you a couple of times in the past six months?"

The woman paused and gave Ciel a look. It must be something in his expression that had her almost smirking. "You really are a detective, aren't you? You're really cute when you are all serious with that baby-doll face of yours."

John couldn't decide which was more likely: Ciel rolling his eye, or Ciel blushing with embarrassment.

"Did he do that to you?" she asked, her expression suddenly went grim. Something told John he was wrong on both guesses.

Ciel instinctively raised his hand to touch his eyepatch. "It was long ago," he said, not actually leaving room for questions. She nodded in acceptance even though she clearly wanted to ask something and sat back quietly.

"I don't know if I can be of any help," she said, her lips thinned as she frowned. "My boyfriend doesn't let me in on what he's doing all that much, you know, said I wouldn't understand. He's an entrepreneur, so I guess he has a point. I don't understand business and stuffs like that, you see, so I let him do whatever he wants as long as I'm allowed to be with him. Eight months ago he took me to a party – a really, really nice party like the one you see on the telly that rich people has. I was introduced to a couple of guys at the table. One of them was Ferguson. He came by quite a bit after we set everything up. He's like a ring-leader, overseeing us, all of us – I don't know who else, but he got to have a lot of people to work for him to throw that kind of party. I think we met Ferguson's boss, too. Ferguson mentioned him again a couple of weeks back when he paid us a visit because apparently the situation wasn't very good for them because of Mr. Holmes. I think his name is Monroe or something. Anyway, I didn't really remember him because, well, when they started to talk business at the party, they asked me to leave and go play with other girls. I did. I don't like it one bit when they treat me like that, but I have to. If I disobey," she paused with a sharp breath, "if I don't do what I'm told, my boyfriend and his pals will get rid of me. If they think I know too much, they might… I don't know what they'll do. So… so I have to keep quiet and do what I'm told, and make him happy."

Her voice died, but Ciel regarded her quietly for another long moment, before he said, "So you let him rein your life all this time, acting a brainless doll for him to have no reason to suspect or try to get rid of you." He snorted. "Is that really it, or are you playing him?"

Her head shot up and she glared hard at him. The look of hurt was clear.

But Ciel wasn't backing down. "Are you trying to get sympathy by acting the victim so you'll only be prosecuted for conspiring and leave him to take all the blame? Because, I'm not buying it. Someone who can plant a jar with a severed thumb in a busy park in broad daylight is not someone who would be victimized this easily. You're just using him, aren't you? He turned out to be a stub, so you're leaving him, but you can't do that without first destroying him."

She looked like she was about to cry at that point – rage, fear, and disbelief was clear on her face. "I won't use him. I will never," she protested with a crack in her voice, a crack that might have come from the anger of being betrayed.

Ciel simply pushed himself back away from the table and stood up. "When you're done playing the innocent girl who is just too in love with a bad boy to stop him, start talking. There is no use saving your own skin now that this is out. They will hunt you down. No jail, no streets, will be safe for you again, so stop running and hide behind other people's back and get _your_ life back. His love is not worth that." Then with calmer voice, he said, "Detective Inspector Aberline can assist you on getting into a protection program if you wish. Once you make up your mind, talk to him."

Without waiting for a reply, Ciel turned from her and was once again back in the observation room with them. The door swung close behind him with a soft click, and the room went dead silent.

All of them were regarding the young man who just re-entered the room quietly. To be honest, John was more than a bit shock when Ciel turned the table and accused the trembling woman of lying. It was a giant slap in the face for the trust she showed him and, in John's opinion, totally uncalled for. That was until he actually heard the last bit. If that wouldn't convince her to talk to the police and made her confession, the woman's self-esteem must have been more battered than they first realized.

"I hope that will get you going somewhere, gentlemen," said Ciel finally, breaking the silence with his usual nonchalance as he found himself a seat. "Is there anything else we should talk to her about?" he asked.

"I would recommend we leave her alone for now," muttered Sherlock who eyed the young man thoughtfully. They decided to continue their discussion somewhere else and started to leave. Sherlock, surprisingly, was thoughtful enough to be holding the door for them. John found it strange but he accepted his flatmate gesture only to realize he was wrong when the door swung shut behind his back, locking both Sherlock and Ciel alone inside the room.

* * *

><p>There weren't many occasions that Sherlock had a cause to re-evaluate aspects of his deduction, less so to re-evaluate the entire deduction altogether. This was one of them, as he watched Ciel moved from reassuring and accusing the woman, he just <em>knew<em> something was off. Ciel Phantomhive had defied his own definition.

And Ciel knew. Sherlock could see it in the young man's eyes that he knew what was going on. With a sigh, he sat back down and stared at Sherlock, not bothering to hide behind the normal college student façade he used so often in the crowd.

"You have something to ask," stated Ciel plainly. It wasn't a question.

"You have done this before," stated Sherlock plainly. He knew it was true.

Ciel discreetly snorted, but not discreet enough for Sherlock to not see it for what it was. "I told you I interviewed inmates before, psychopathic criminals, they are more difficult to talk to than this," Ciel explained.

"I bet you excel at that," replied the detective as he pulled a chair over and sat down in front of the young man. "You're a student, a game consultant, an expert in psychopaths – no, don't bother to deny that. It is just too plain to see. What are you going to be next week? Is there something else you haven't told us?"

Ciel exhaled sharply like he wanted to laugh. "Can't you tell?" he asked, "You're Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. You know everything that is needed to be known in a glance. Can't you read me like you read everybody else?"

"I can be wrong or, at least, incomplete" Sherlock admitted quietly. It wasn't often that he admitted his deduction to be off, and he wasn't going to do that to just anyone. John would get a kick out of listening to Sherlock admitting his own fault if not viciously so, but Ciel wouldn't. He had known it from the start that Ciel was not in the same plane of existence with others. Years of fixation in something beyond himself – beyond living – had put him in the same dimension with Sherlock, Mycroft, and even Moriarty.

Like now, Ciel was simply looking at him, assessing him, and sighed. "I don't think this is the right time for a heart-to-heart, Sherlock. You still have a case on your hands. Maybe later?"

"The case is done," Sherlock replied, "the thumb at least. Moran would be a long shot. We don't need to hurry."

At the unfamiliar name, Ciel frowned. "Moran? You mean that's Monroe she was talking about? How did you-"

"Sebastian Moran. There isn't much information about him aside from being a street rogue from a young age, was arrested for assaults a couple of times but nothing serious enough to keep him in jail for long. He is suspect to have ties with crime firms, maybe even organizing one of his own. He seems to have some loyal fans, usually youngsters."

"A mercenary," Ciel muttered under his breath. His hand clenched a bit as he seemed to be in his own thought. "Perfect knight for a rogue king, isn't it?"

"I agree," replied Sherlock with a wry smile.

Their conversation was interrupt with the bang on the door. Apparently John wasn't too happy that Sherlock wanted time alone with Ciel. The detective turned instinctively to the young man who gestured that they should answer it.

"Later then," Sherlock promised and got up to unlock the door.

* * *

><p>TBC.<p> 


End file.
